Page 7 of The Mafia's Second Shot

The first time he told me he loved me, we were lying on my couch, tangled in each other’s arms. He’d whispered the words like a secret, his voice low and rough. And I’d believed him. God help me, I’d believed him.

But then the cracks started to show. The late-night calls he wouldn’t explain. The bruises on his knuckles. The shadows in his eyes that wouldn’t go away. I ignored the signs for as long as I could, convincing myself that whatever he was hiding didn’t matter as long as we had each other.

Until the night I found him in my apartment, covered in blood.

He told me it wasn’t his, that I didn’t need to know the details. But I did know. Deep down, I’d always known. And that’s when I realized that loving him would destroy me.

So I left. I packed a bag and walked out of his life, even though it felt like ripping my own heart out. I told myself it was the right thing to do, that I deserved better than the lies and the danger he brought into my life.

But now, sitting here in the dark, I wonder if I ever really moved on. If I ever really stopped loving him.

The next morning,I throw myself into work at the gallery, determined to shake off the lingering memories of Cooper. The familiar rhythm of unpacking shipments and arranging displaysis usually soothing, but today it feels hollow, like I’m just going through the motions.

Alice notices, of course. She always does.

“You look like hell,” she says, leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee in hand. “No offense.”

“None taken,” I mutter, adjusting a painting on the wall. “Just a rough night.”

She studies me for a moment, her expression unreadable. “You sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

I shake my head. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

Alice doesn’t push, but I can tell she doesn’t believe me. She never does. She just sighs and heads to the office, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

By mid-afternoon, I’m feeling a little more like myself. The gallery is quiet, the steady hum of the air conditioning a welcome distraction. But when I step outside to grab some lunch, I notice something that makes my stomach drop.

The lock on the front door is broken. It’s subtle—just a small scratch near the keyhole, like someone tried to force it open. My heart pounds as I glance around, but the street is empty. Normal. Too normal.

I tell myself it’s nothing. Maybe I just didn’t notice it before. Maybe it’s just wear and tear. But the knot in my stomach refuses to loosen.

When I return from lunch, there’s a man standing across the street. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a baseball cappulled low over his face. He doesn’t look at me directly, but I can feel his gaze, heavy and unsettling.

I duck back into the gallery, my hands trembling as I lock the door behind me. The man doesn’t follow, but he doesn’t leave, either. He just stands there, a shadow against the bright afternoon light.

By the time I close up for the day, he’s gone. But the unease remains, curling in my chest like a living thing.

Back at my apartment,I pace the living room, the weight of everything pressing down on me. The envelope. The broken lock. The man outside the gallery. It’s too much to ignore, no matter how hard I try.

I grab my phone, my fingers hesitating over Cooper’s number. I don’t want to call him. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of thinking I need him. But the truth is, I don’t know what else to do.

With a frustrated groan, I hit call.

It rings twice before he answers.

“Zoey,” he says, his voice low and smooth, like he was expecting my call. Like he knew I’d cave.

“Don’t,” I snap, my tone sharper than I intended. “Don’t act like this is normal. Like any of this is okay.”

“I’m not,” he says evenly. “But I’m glad you called.”

“I don’t trust you,” I say, pacing the room. “I don’t trust anything about this. But something’s going on, and I need answers.”

“You’ll get them,” he says. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Wait—what?” I stop in my tracks. “I didn’t ask you to come over.”

“You didn’t have to.” His voice leaves no room for argument. “Stay put. I’m on my way.”

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