Page 9 of The Mafia's Second Shot

“I know that,” I say. “But they don’t. And they’re not the kind of people who care about the truth. They just want leverage.”

Her expression shifts, her anger giving way to something darker. “So this is my punishment,” she says quietly. “For loving you.”

Her words hit like a punch to the gut, but I don’t flinch. “This isn’t about punishment,” I say. “It’s about survival.”

“Survival?” She shakes her head, a harsh laugh escaping her lips. “You dragged me into your world, Cooper. You lied to me, over and over again. And now, years later, I’m supposed to just... what? Trust you to fix it?”

“Yes,” I say simply.

She stares at me, her jaw tightening, her fists clenching at her sides. “You don’t get to ask for my trust. Not after everything.”

I don’t argue. She’s right. I don’t deserve her trust. But that doesn’t change the fact that she needs me. And whether she wants to admit it or not, she knows it too.

She storms past me, heading to the kitchen, her back rigid with anger. I don’t follow. I know better than to push her when she’s like this. Instead, I turn to the window, my eyes scanning the street below for any sign of trouble. The lights of the city stretch out endlessly, but they don’t bring me any comfort. If anything, they feel like a reminder of how far I’ve fallen—and how much further I have to go to make this right.

It’s latewhen Marco calls. I’m sitting in the dark, nursing a glass of whiskey, when my phone buzzes on the coffee table. I grab it, my heart sinking at the sight of his name.

“What is it?” I ask, skipping the pleasantries.

“We’ve got a problem,” Marco says, his voice grim. “Zoey’s name came up again.”

My grip on the phone tightens. “Details.”

“Same source as before. Rosetti’s people are moving faster than we thought. Word is, they’ve got eyes on her.”

The knot in my stomach tightens. “Do we know who?”

“Not yet,” Marco admits. “But it’s only a matter of time.”

I hang up without another word, my mind racing. If they’re watching her, it means I’m already too late. The security detail I set up won’t be enough. Not if they’re serious.

I grab my jacket and head for the door. Zoey might hate me, but she’s going to have to deal with it. Because I’m not leaving her side until this is over—no matter what it costs me.

7

ZOEY

Itell myself I can handle this. That I don’t need Cooper to protect me, and I definitely don’t need him worming his way back into my life. But the truth is, he’s already here—watching, guarding, taking up space in my apartment and my thoughts. No matter how much I fight it, I’m being pulled into his orbit, the way I was years ago.

It’s maddening.

Because despite everything—the lies, the danger, the heartbreak—I still feel the weight of his presence. It’s in the way he watches the room like a hawk, assessing every exit and shadow. The way his jaw tightens every time I catch him staring at me. The way he steps just slightly between me and the door whenever we’re in the same space, like he’s shielding me from something only he can see.

But there’s something else, too. A darkness that wasn’t there before, or maybe one I never noticed. It’s in his eyes, in the tight lines of his face when he thinks I’m not looking. He’s carrying something heavy, something that drags him down no matter how hard he tries to hide it.

And I hate that a part of me still cares.

I headto the gallery early, hoping to escape his presence for a while. Work has always been my sanctuary—a place where I can lose myself in the vibrant colors and textures of the art, the calm of arranging displays, the satisfaction of a well-organized space. But even here, I can’t shake the weight of the last few days. Every noise, every shadow feels like a threat waiting to pounce.

By mid-morning, the gallery is quiet, the kind of stillness I usually love. But today it feels oppressive. I’m in the back, unpacking a new shipment, when the front door chimes. I freeze, my heart lurching into my throat.

“Zoey?” Cooper’s voice calls out, calm but commanding.

I exhale sharply, rolling my eyes as I head to the front. “You have to stop showing up unannounced,” I say, my irritation clear.

“You’ll thank me in a second,” he replies, standing near the door with his arms crossed. His eyes are locked on a man by the counter, who’s holding a small package.

The man looks up, startled, and I immediately recognize him as one of the couriers we use for deliveries. But something about him seems off—his nervous posture, the way his eyes dart between me and Cooper.

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