Page 66 of The Mafia's Second Shot

Zoey leads the way, her confidence easing my nerves as we approach the front desk. A woman with kind eyes and a bright smile greets us warmly, her name tag readingSandra.

“Welcome to Harbor Community Center,” Sandra says. “How can I help you?”

“We’re just visiting,” Zoey replies, glancing at me. “He’s curious about the programs you run here.”

Sandra’s gaze shifts to me, her smile never wavering. “That’s wonderful. Let me show you around.”

The tour isbrief but eye-opening. Sandra walks us through the different programs, from mentoring and after-school tutoring to job training and workshops for young adults. Everywhere we go, I see glimpses of something familiar—kids struggling with the same things I did growing up, looking for guidance and a way out.

By the time we finish, my perspective has shifted. The doubts are still there, but so is something else. Possibility.

“Thank you for showing us around,”I say as we prepare to leave. “This place is... impressive.”

“We’d love to have you involved,” Sandra says warmly. “If you’re interested, we’re always looking for mentors. No pressure, of course.”

I nod, her words settling into the quiet space Zoey’s encouragement has already carved out. “I’ll think about it.”

As we step outside, Zoey slips her hand into mine, her expression hopeful. “So?”

“So... maybe you were right,” I admit, a faint smile tugging at my lips. “This might be something worth exploring.”

Her smile widens, her fingers tightening around mine. “I knew you’d get there.”

As we walk back to the car, the doubt in my chest begins to fade, replaced by something that feels like purpose. It’s small, tentative, but it’s there.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I might be moving in the right direction.

47

ZOEY

The days leading up to the gallery exhibit pass in a whirlwind of preparation. My art supplies are scattered across every available surface in our apartment—brushes, canvases, tubes of paint, and sketches that didn’t make the cut. Cooper doesn’t complain about the mess, though. If anything, he seems amused by it, stepping carefully around the chaos with his signature smirk.

“You sure you don’t want me to help clean up?” he asks one morning, leaning against the doorway of my makeshift studio.

“Nope,” I reply, not looking up from the canvas I’m working on. “This is organized chaos. I know exactly where everything is.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, clearly unconvinced. “If you say so.”

Despite my determination to focus,doubt creeps in at the edges. Each piece I finish feels like a small victory, but it’s followed quickly by a nagging voice in the back of my mind.What if it’s not good enough? What if no one likes it? What if I fail?

Cooper seems to sense my unease, stepping into the room and crossing to my side. He rests a hand on my shoulder, his touch grounding me. “You’re overthinking again.”

I sigh, setting down my brush. “How can I not? This is my first exhibit, Cooper. What if no one buys anything? What if people just... walk past my work without even noticing?”

“Then they’re idiots,” he says simply. “Because your work is incredible.”

I give him a weak smile, my chest tightening with gratitude. “You have to say that. You’re biased.”

“I don’t have to say anything,” he counters, his tone firm. “I’m saying it because it’s true. You’ve put your heart into this, Zoey. That’s what makes it special.”

His words hit me harder than I expect, and I lean into him, letting his arms wrap around me. “I just... I don’t want to fail.”

“You won’t,” he says, his voice steady. “And even if you did, you’d get back up. Because that’s who you are.”

The nightof the exhibit arrives faster than I’m ready for. Cooper insists on driving, his calm presence a lifeline as my nerves threaten to overwhelm me. The gallery is already buzzing when we arrive, the soft hum of conversation mingling with the clinking of glasses.

“Ready?” Cooper asks, offering me his hand as we step inside.

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