Page 37 of The Mafia's Second Shot

“Cooper,” I say, my voice trembling. “I don’t know if we can fix everything that’s happened. But I want to try.”

His hand covers mine, his touch warm and steady. “I’ll spend the rest of my life making it right if you let me.”

I lean closer, my heart pounding. “Then start now.”

The words barely leave my lips before he closes the distance between us, his mouth capturing mine in a kiss that’s slow and deliberate, filled with years of longing. His hand moves to my cheek, his thumb brushing against my skin as if he’s afraid I’ll pull away.

But I don’t. I can’t.

The blanket slipsfrom my shoulders as I shift closer, my hands sliding up his chest. His skin is warm beneath my fingers, his heartbeat steady despite the tension radiating off him. He deepens the kiss, his arm wrapping around my waist and pulling me onto his lap.

“Zoey,” he murmurs against my lips, his voice rough with emotion.

I pull back just enough to look at him, my breath coming in short, uneven bursts. “I’m here,” I whisper, threading my fingers through his hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The vulnerability in his eyes is enough to undo me. He cups my face with both hands, his thumbs tracing along my jaw as he kisses me again, slower this time, like he’s savoring the moment.

We move togetherlike we’ve done this a thousand times, yet it feels new, electric. His hands slide beneath the hem of my sweater, his touch setting my skin on fire. I let out a soft gasp as his lips trail down my neck, his stubble grazing against my skin.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, his voice low and reverent.

I laugh softly, the sound shaky. “You’re biased.”

“Maybe,” he says, a grin tugging at his lips. “But I’m also right.”

I roll my eyes, but the warmth in my chest spreads, making it impossible to argue. I tug at his shirt, and he helps me pull it off, his body solid and familiar beneath my hands. He leans back, his gaze sweeping over me like he’s memorizing every detail.

“Come here,” he murmurs, his arms pulling me close.

The restof the night is a blur of whispered words and stolen breaths, of hands and lips and skin. It’s not just passion—it’s trust, healing, hope. For the first time in years, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, this is something we can rebuild.

As we lie tangled together on the couch, the fire burning low in the hearth, I rest my head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“I’m scared,” I admit, my voice barely audible.

“So am I,” he says, his hand tracing lazy circles on my back. “But we’ll figure it out. Together.”

His words are a promise, and though I know the peace we’ve found here won’t last forever, I let myself hold onto it for as long as I can.

27

COOPER

The morning air is crisp, cutting through the cabin with a chill that wakes me better than the coffee in my hand. I stand by the window, staring out at the endless expanse of trees and mountains. This place has given us something rare: time. But I know it can’t last. Not with Rossi still out there, hunting for us.

I take a long sip of coffee, my mind already racing through the possibilities. The safe house has kept us hidden, but if I want to end this for good, hiding isn’t enough. Rossi won’t stop until he’s either dead or I am. And I’ve made my choice: it’s going to be him.

I spendthe morning at the small desk in the corner of the living room, poring over maps and intel Marco sent me before we left. The scattered factions are holding steady for now, but it’s only a matter of time before Rossi finds a weak link. My plan is risky, but it’s the only way to draw him out and take him down for good.

I map out the details carefully, every step designed to minimize the fallout. I’ll use the scattered factions as bait—not their people, but the locations themselves. Rossi thinks he has the upper hand, but if I can turn his strategy against him, I can force a confrontation on my terms.

The sound of soft footsteps pulls me from my thoughts. I glance up to see Zoey standing in the doorway, her arms crossed over her chest. She’s wearing one of my sweaters, and her hair is a mess of loose waves that makes my chest tighten.

“You’re planning something,” she says, her voice sharp but calm.

I lean back in the chair, setting the pen down. “I’m always planning something.”

“Don’t deflect,” she replies, stepping closer. “What are you doing, Cooper?”

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