Page 52 of The Mafia's Second Shot

I raise the radio to my lips, my voice shaking. “Marco. I found Cooper. He’s with Rossi.”

“Hold tight,” Marco replies instantly. “We’re coming.”

I lower the radio, my eyes locked on Cooper. “Come on,” I whisper. “You’ve got this.”

But even as I say the words, the fear lingers, heavy and unshakable. Because if he doesn’t, I don’t know what I’ll do.

37

COOPER

The industrial yard feels like it’s closing in, the chaos of the battle fading into the background as I face Rossi. The world narrows to just the two of us, our movements deliberate, every step calculated. The years of hatred and betrayal between us hang heavy in the air, an unspoken challenge.

“You always did have a flair for the dramatic,” Rossi says, his lips curling into a smug grin. He circles me like a predator, his gun raised but not firing. “I have to admit, though, I didn’t think you’d make it this far.”

I keep my weapon trained on him, my muscles coiled and ready. “The feeling’s mutual.”

His grin widens. “Still playing the hero, huh? Protecting your people, saving the girl. Tell me, Cooper—how’s that working out for you?”

The mention of Zoey sends a surge of anger through me, but I force myself to stay calm. “This ends here, Rossi.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” he replies, his tone dripping with mockery. “See, I’ve got nothing to lose. But you? You’ve goteverything—your little empire, your loyal men, and let’s not forget your precious Zoey.”

He takes a step closer,his gun still aimed squarely at my chest. “Tell me, how long do you think she’ll stick around when she realizes who you really are? The blood on your hands, the lives you’ve ruined? Do you think she’ll still look at you the same way?”

“Shut up,” I growl, my grip tightening on the gun.

He laughs, the sound grating. “Hit a nerve, did I? You’ve always been good at pretending to be the hero, Cooper, but deep down, we both know you’re just like me.”

“I’m nothing like you,” I snap, taking a step forward.

“Aren’t you?” he counters. “You’ve killed. Lied. Sacrificed. All in the name of protecting your people. Sounds a lot like me, don’t you think?”

The words cut deeper than I want to admit, but I can’t let him get in my head. I focus on his movements, looking for an opening, a weakness. He’s confident, too confident, and that’s what I’ll use against him.

The fight eruptsin a blur of motion. Rossi fires first, the bullet grazing my shoulder as I dive for cover behind a stack of crates. I return fire, the sound echoing through the yard as the shot grazes his leg. He stumbles but recovers quickly, using a metal pillar as cover.

“Not bad,” he calls out, his voice laced with amusement. “But you’ll have to do better than that.”

I ignore him, moving quickly to flank his position. My shoulder burns where the bullet nicked me, but the pain is nothing compared to the adrenaline surging through me. This isn’t just a fight—it’s a reckoning.

We exchange fire,the space between us shrinking with every step. Rossi is fast, his movements calculated, but I know this yard better than he does. I use the terrain to my advantage, forcing him into a corner where his options are limited.

“You’re slipping, Rossi,” I taunt, my voice steady. “Not as sharp as you used to be.”

He snarls, his cocky demeanor faltering. “And you’re still just a boy playing at being a king.”

He lunges, and suddenly, the fight is no longer about guns. We collide in a brutal clash of fists and fury, his strength matched by my determination. Every punch, every kick carries the weight of years of animosity, the rage of a thousand battles fought in the shadows.

Rossi landsa blow to my ribs, the force of it driving the air from my lungs. I stumble but recover quickly, countering with a punch that splits his lip. He spits blood, laughing as he wipes his mouth.

“That all you’ve got?” he sneers.

I don’t answer, driving forward with a series of strikes that force him back. He blocks most of them, but I can see him tiring, his movements slowing. For the first time, I feel like I might actually win.

The tide turnswhen I manage to disarm him, his gun skidding across the concrete. I press him against the wall, my own weapon raised, my chest heaving with effort.

“It’s over,” I say, my voice low and cold.

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