Page 65 of The Mafia's Second Shot

And I can’t wait to see what comes next.

46

COOPER

The sunlight streams through the windows of our temporary apartment, highlighting the edges of the small space. It’s quiet, almost too quiet, and I sit at the kitchen table, staring at the black coffee in front of me. The routine is unfamiliar—no calls to make, no operations to oversee, no decisions that could cost lives.

It’s strange, this new normal. I should feel relieved, lighter even, but instead, there’s a weight pressing down on me that I can’t quite shake.

“What’s on your mind?” Zoey’s voice pulls me from my thoughts. She’s leaning against the doorway, her hair loose and wild, a faint smile playing on her lips.

“Just... thinking,” I reply, gesturing to the coffee like it holds the answers. “About what comes next.”

She walks over, sitting across from me. “That’s not like you,” she teases gently. “You’re usually three steps ahead.”

“Not anymore,” I admit, my voice quieter than I intended. “For the first time in years, I don’t know what the next step is.”

Zoey tilts her head,studying me. “You’re figuring it out. It’s okay to not have all the answers right away.”

I lean back, rubbing a hand over my face. “You say that, but it doesn’t feel okay. I’ve spent my whole life being in control—knowing exactly who I am, what I do, and why I do it. And now... now I don’t know who I am without the mafia.”

Her expression softens, and she reaches across the table, her fingers brushing against mine. “You’re more than that, Cooper. You always have been.”

The restof the morning passes in a blur of quiet conversation and small tasks, but the feeling of restlessness lingers. Zoey suggests taking a walk to clear my head, and though I resist at first, I eventually give in. The streets are quieter here, the pace slower than the city I’ve called home for so long.

As we pass by a park, Zoey stops suddenly, her gaze landing on a small building near the edge of the green space. The sign above the door reads:Harbor Community Center.

“What is it?” I ask, following her gaze.

“I’ve been here before,” she says, her voice thoughtful. “Years ago. They run programs for at-risk kids—mentoring, tutoring, stuff like that.”

I nod, my interest piqued despite myself. “Sounds like they do good work.”

“They do,” she says, turning to me with a knowing look. “You should check it out.”

Her suggestion catchesme off guard. “Me? What would I even do there?”

Zoey raises an eyebrow. “You’re kidding, right? You’ve spent years leading people, making tough calls, handling impossible situations. That kind of strength and leadership could make a huge difference for those kids.”

I let out a dry laugh, shaking my head. “You think they’d want someone like me?”

“I think you’re exactly what they need,” she says firmly. “You’ve been where some of those kids are headed. You know how to steer them away from it.”

Her words sit heavily in my chest, a mix of doubt and something close to hope. “I don’t know, Zoey. I’m not sure I’m the right guy for something like that.”

“You’re more than the right guy,” she says, her hand brushing against my arm. “And you don’t have to decide right now. Just... think about it.”

The idea stickswith me as we walk back to the apartment, weaving itself into the restless thoughts I can’t quite quiet. That evening, as Zoey works on sketches for her gallery exhibit, I sit on the couch, staring out the window at the streetlights below.

The doubt is loud—echoing every mistake I’ve made, every person I’ve hurt, every piece of my past I can’t undo. But beneath it, there’s something quieter. A small voice whispering that maybe, just maybe, she’s right.

The next morning,Zoey surprises me by suggesting we visit the community center together. “No pressure,” she says, her smile soft but encouraging. “Just to see what it’s about.”

I hesitate, the familiar resistance rising in my chest. But her gaze is steady, her faith in me unwavering, and I find myself nodding before I can second-guess it.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.”

The center is buzzingwith activity when we arrive—kids playing basketball on an outdoor court, a group of teenagers working on an art project in a sunny corner of the building, volunteers moving with the kind of practiced efficiency that comes from genuine care.

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