Cat & Mouse Cabaret

Chapter Two~Shaw

Listen to Remembered Mine by Austin Giorgio for the full experience!!!

The bottle tipped in my hand as the world shifted slightly to the left. Or maybe it was me shifting. Hard to tell anymore.

The rooftop gravel crunched under my shoe as I leaned forward, staring down at the glittering chaos of Manhattan twenty stories below. Headlights streaked along the streets like veins of electricity. Taxi horns drifted faintly through the night air.

The city never slept. It never hesitated. It never doubted itself. Must be f*****g nice.

I lifted the bottle again, letting the whiskey burn its way down my throat. The sharp heat barely touched the pressure building behind my ribs. It barely dulled the conversation that had been replaying in my skull for the last twenty minutes.

Medici pride.

Medici threats.

Medici bullshit.

But that wasn't the part that stuck. It was my father's voice.

Cold.

Measured.

Disappointed.

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The basement office had smelled like cigar smoke and polished wood when I walked in earlier that night.

It always did.

Dominic Falcone didn't run his empire from flashy boardrooms or penthouse suites. He ran it from a dim office beneath the Cabaret where the walls were thick, the doors were reinforced, and the only witnesses were ledgers older than I was.

He sat behind the desk when I walked in.

Still. Quiet. Watching.

My father had a way of looking at people that made them feel like insects pinned under glass.

"You're too patient," he said finally.

I leaned against the far wall, arms crossed."Or maybe I'm not stupid."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "That's a dangerous line to walk, son."

"Letting the Medici think they run our ports is the dangerous line."

"They don't think that," he replied calmly.

"Yet."

Silence stretched across the room like a wire pulled too tight.

Then he leaned back in his chair. "You know what my father taught me?"

I didn't answer and he didn't wait for one."When another family tests you..." His voice lowered. "You don't negotiate." His fingers tapped once against the desk. "You break them." The words landed in the room like a gunshot. "You make the cost of disrespect so high that no one ever considers it again."

I pushed away from the wall slightly. "And how many wars did that start?" I countered.

"As many as it needed to." He states matter of factly.

"And how many men died for it?"

He didn't even blink. "As many as it took." He bellowed.

My jaw tightened. "That's not leadership." I scoff

His gaze sharpened like a blade. "That," he said quietly, "is exactly what leadership is." He leaned forward slowly. "And if you can't understand that, Lorenzo... you may not be ready to run this family when the time comes."

The words hit harder than they should have. Because a part of me wondered if he meant them. I opened my mouth to respond. I didn't get the chance.

The basement door was flung open.

And in strolled the f*****g Medici.

Alessandro entered first. Broad shoulders.

Immaculate charcoal coat.

The kind of presence that made rooms instinctively go quiet when he stepped into them.

Behind him came one of the Medici capos—the same one who had been drinking upstairs earlier—his expression sour and impatient, like he'd already decided the evening was a waste of his time.

The basement suddenly felt smaller. Tighter.

Like all the oxygen had been sucked out of the air.

Alessandro's dark eyes scanned the room once before settling on me.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Then his lip curled.

"So," he said in Italian, his voice smooth but edged with irritation, "this is the Falcone lair. The Falcone King." He slurs rolling his arm as he takes a very clumsy bow.

My father didn't move.

Didn't blink.

He remained seated behind the desk like a king on a throne carved out of mahogany and old blood.

"Alessandro," Dominic said calmly. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

But Alessandro wasn't looking at him.

He walked straight across the room toward me instead.

Measured steps.

Controlled.

Predatory.

I pushed off the wall just enough to stand properly but didn't otherwise move from my spot.

If he wanted to posture, he could do it without me helping.

"You run an interesting establishment upstairs," Alessandro said slowly.

His voice carried just enough amusement to make it clear he wasn't actually amused at all.

I raised an eyebrow. "We try."

The Medici capo behind him muttered something sharp under his breath in Italian.

Alessandro ignored it. His gaze sharpened slightly. "Tell me something, Lorenzo..." He stopped directly in front of me now. Close enough that I could smell expensive cologne and the faint burn of liquor on his breath.

"Do you normally allow your staff to insult visiting dignitaries?"

That made me pause.

"Depends on the dignitary."

The capo behind him scoffed. Alessandro didn't smile. Didn't laugh.

If anything his expression grew colder.

"Your bartender," he said slowly, enunciating every word like he was explaining something to a child, "has very poor manners."

I blinked once.

Bartender?

"What exactly did my bartender do?" I asked.

The Medici capo stepped forward slightly.

"You should control your people better," he snapped. "The girl upstairs—"

Alessandro lifted a hand slightly, silencing him.

Then Alessandro reached up absently and rubbed the side of his throat. Not dramatically. Just a small, unconscious motion like the muscle was sore.

I noticed it. But had no context for it and didn't care to entertain his tantrum with a response.

"You have a fiery little redhead working your bar," Alessandro said calmly.

Something flickered in my chest. Elizabetha.

My eyes narrowed slightly.

"She works for the Cabaret," I said evenly trying hard to mask my curiosity.

"She works for you." He accused.

"She pours drinks."

"And apparently throws punches." He growled.

That made my eyebrow lift.

"Does she?"

The Medici capo barked a short laugh.

"Oh she does," he muttered.

Alessandro's gaze never left mine.

"You should teach her restraint."

I shrugged slightly.

"You should teach your men not to harass women while they're working."

The room went very still.

The capo behind him shifted his weight like he might step forward.

Alessandro didn't move for a moment.

Then-

His hand shot out.

Suddenly my shirt collar was twisted tight in his fist, dragging me a half step away from the wall. Fabric pulled tight against my throat. The movement was fast enough that several guards reacted instantly. Chairs scraped. Hands dropped to holsters. One of my father's men took a step forward before Dominic even spoke.

Alessandro leaned closer, his grip tightening.

"You think this is a joke?" he asked quietly.

His voice had lost all humor now.

I didn't fight the hold.

Didn't raise my hands.

Just looked down at him calmly.

"I think," I replied evenly, "that if a bartender can hurt your pride this badly, the Medici might have bigger problems than our shipping lanes."

The capo behind him swore in Italian.

Alessandro's fingers tightened around my collar. His eyes burned now. Pure intoxicated fury.

"Perhaps I should go upstairs," he murmured darkly, "and teach her some respect myself."

The room shifted instantly.

That sentence alone was enough to turn the tension from uncomfortable... to lethal.

Every Falcone guard in the basement straightened. No one threatened Tatum not around anyone in this room... not around me.

My own temper finally stirred.

Low. Dangerous.

"You can try," I said quietly meeting the depth of his gaze as I continued, "But if she did that because of your disrespectful mouth I can only imagine what she'll do when you disrespect her image." I nodded to his neck which now was home to a very nasty blackish purple bruise.

And that's when my father spoke.

"Alessandro."

Dominic Falcone didn't raise his voice. Didn't slam his hand on the desk. Didn't move at all. But his voice cracked through the room like thunder. Every man in the basement froze.

Alessandro included.

Slowly, Alessandro turned his head toward the desk. Dominic was still sitting exactly the same way. Hands folded. Expression calm.

But his eyes— His eyes looked like winter.

"You will release my son," Dominic said quietly. It wasn't a suggestion. The silence that followed pressed against the walls.

For one long second Alessandro held my collar.

Two.

Then his hand released the fabric. I straightened my shirt slowly.

The room exhaled as the immediate threat of violence passed.

Dominic leaned back in his chair again like nothing had happened.

"Now," he continued smoothly, "shall we discuss why the Medici felt the need to storm into my establishment like offended schoolchildren?"

The capo muttered something irritated under his breath.

Alessandro rolled his shoulders once, adjusting the cuffs of his coat.

But his eyes flicked toward me one last time.

Cold.

Promising.

Then the meeting began.

And somehow...

It only got worse from there.

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The memory dissolved as another mouthful of whiskey burned down my throat.

My father would've already solved this. My father would've put a bullet in someone's skull and called it diplomacy.

The thought made my mouth twist.

Another sip. Another burn.

Then—

"Shaw!" The scream cut through the quiet like a gunshot.

Before I could even turn, something grabbed my jacket. Hard. The world lurched violently backward.

My foot slipped on the gravel and suddenly the edge of the building was gone from my vision as I stumbled into something warm and solid.

Into her.

We slammed into the brick wall a few feet from the ledge, the impact knocking the air straight out of my lungs.

The bottle flew from my hand.

Glass clattered across the rooftop and rolled away.

For a moment everything went still.

My head spun slightly, the whiskey catching up with gravity as I blinked down at the furious redhead currently clutching the front of my suit like she was about to strangle me with it.

Elizabethaaaaaa.

Her hands were gripping my lapels so tightly her knuckles had gone white. Her chest was rising and falling too fast.

Her heart—close enough that I could feel it through both our clothes—was beating like a war drum.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" she snapped. Her voice was breathless. Furious. Terrified.

I blinked slowly, letting the world settle back into focus. Then a crooked smile slipped across my face.

"You came."

She stared at me like she might actually push me off the roof this time. "You almost fell off the building!"

"Dramatic," I waved at her dismissively.

"You were leaning over the ledge!"

"I was leaning," I emphasized calmly.

"You were drunk!"

"Still am." I stated with a loud POP sound as I stuck my tongue out.

Her grip tightened, "You could have died."

That did it. For just a moment the teasing drained out of me. The anger in her voice wasn't the problem. The fear was.

"Takes more than whiskey and gravity to kill me, Elizabetha."

She shoved me hard enough that my back hit the brick wall again. "Don't call me that when you're being an idiot."

A quiet laugh slipped out before I could stop it. The wind moved across the rooftop, lifting strands of her bright red hair around her face.

God, she's furious. And beautiful. She's furiously beautiful.

And completely unaware that she'd just dragged me away from a twenty story fall without even thinking about it.

I bent down, retrieving the bottle where it had rolled. Still half full. Good. I took another drink.

"You're unbelievable," she muttered.

"Yet you still came." I teased grasping the bottle to fight the absolute terrifying need to touch her. Anywhere... everywhere.

Her arms crossed. "You texted like you were dying."

"I texted two words." I scoffed.

"You never text two words." She countered.

That earned a small laugh.

Fair.

The cold wind cut across the rooftop then, sliding under the thin fabric of her shirt. I noticed the way she shivered before she did.

I always noticed.

Without saying anything I slipped my jacket off and draped it over her shoulders.

She rolled her eyes but pulled it tighter around herself anyway. "Don't start."

"Start what?" I asked with the most sincere smile I could manage in my drunken stupor.

"The gentleman routine."

"Too late."

The jacket hung slightly oversized on her.

It always did.

She smelled faintly like floral body oil, expensive liquor and the smoke that permanently clung to the Cabaret walls.

My eyes drifted toward the skyline again.

"How bad was it?" she asked.

I exhaled slowly. "Bad."

"Define bad." She half orders.

"The Medici want concessions." I sighed.

"For what?" She asked.

"For breathing near their shipping lanes." I replied sarcastically.

She leaned back beside me against the wall, staring out over the city like she owned it.

"They're bluffing."

"I know." I muttered.

"But?" She lifted one perfect eyebrow.

"But bluffing doesn't matter if someone decides to call it." I paused. Then added quietly, "My father thinks I should've called it."

Her eyes shifted toward me. "What did he say?"

I laughed once under my breath. "You really want to know?"

"Yes." She nods softly.

I rubbed the back of my neck.

"He said when another family tests you... you don't negotiate."

"And?"

"You break them."

Her eyebrows lifted slightly. "Charming."

"He said if I don't make an example of the Medici soon, every family in the city will start testing us."

"And you don't agree."

"I think starting a war to protect your ego is the fastest way to lose everything."

She studied me carefully.

"Your father didn't like that answer."

"He told me I might not be ready to run the family."

Her expression softened slightly, "Well... that's dramatic."

"He's not wrong to worry."

"You didn't punch the Underboss."

"Low bar."

"Still counts."

A small laugh slipped out before I snicker out,"I hear you weren't as lucky to step over that bar though huh?"

For a moment the tension sitting across my shoulders loosened slightly.

She snorts and shrugs, "you know me better than that, Shaw. The bar is there to break."

I shook my head and wrapped an arm around her shoulder as we stared out across the city.

The wind carried the faint sound of the saxophone from the Cabaret below.

I glanced over at her again.

"You know Giovanni told me to stay away from you."

She groaned immediately, running her hands through her unruly hair tugging at the ends.

"Of course he did."

"He thinks you're getting too involved."

"He thinks a lot of things." She seethed.

"He's not entirely wrong." I muttered.

She turned toward me. "And what exactly does that mean?"

Our eyes locked.

The alcohol buzzing through my system suddenly felt a lot less powerful than the look she was giving me.

"It means," I said slowly, "you're the only person in this building who looks at me like I'm still just a man."

The wind tugged at my shirt sleeves.

"And that makes you dangerous."

She swallowed. "Dangerous how?"

I stepped closer. Not touching. Not yet.

Just close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her skin despite the cold night air.

"Because if the wrong people realize how much I trust you," I murmured, "they'll use it against me."

Her voice came out softer than before.

"And if they're right?"

My gaze dropped to her lips for half a second before returning to her eyes. Then I told her the truth.

"Then we're both in trouble."