Page 18 of The Mafia's Second Shot

One afternoon, I find myself in his study, sorting through old papers in search of a book he mentioned. Most of the documents are innocuous—financial ledgers, contracts, neatly filed reports—but one catches my eye. It’s a map, marked with red circles and Xs, and a list of names scrawled in Cooper’s sharp, precise handwriting.

I don’t recognize all the names, but a few stand out: Rossi. Antonelli. Delgado.

These are the people he’s been fighting against, the ones who have forced him into the role of protector and avenger. It’s not just about business or power—it’s about survival, just like he said. And somewhere in the middle of it all, I see the man I loved trying to do the right thing, even if his methods are brutal.

That night,I can’t sleep. My thoughts are a whirlwind of memories and questions, and no matter how hard I try to quiet them, they refuse to be ignored. I find myself wandering thehalls, eventually ending up in the library—a cavernous room filled with shelves that stretch to the ceiling.

The faint light of a lamp spills across the floor, and for a moment, I think I’m alone. But then I see him, sitting in an armchair near the window, a glass of whiskey in his hand.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks without looking at me.

“Not really,” I admit, stepping into the room. “Mind if I join you?”

He gestures to the chair across from him, and I sink into it, pulling my knees to my chest. For a while, we sit in silence, the tension between us palpable but unspoken.

“Do you remember the night you told me you loved me?” I ask suddenly, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

He freezes, his glass halfway to his lips. “Yeah,” he says after a moment, his voice quieter than I expected. “I remember.”

I smile faintly, the memory as vivid as if it happened yesterday. We’d been at my apartment, sitting on the couch after a long day. He’d been fidgety, uncharacteristically nervous, and when he finally said the words, it was like he was giving me a piece of himself he’d never given anyone else.

“I thought I was dreaming,” I say, my voice tinged with nostalgia. “You were always so careful, so guarded. But that night, you let yourself be vulnerable.”

“It was real,” he says, his gaze fixed on his glass. “Every word.”

The contrast between that moment and now is almost too much to bear. Back then, we were just two people trying to make it work, trying to find happiness in a world that seemeddetermined to keep us apart. Now, it feels like the weight of his world is pressing down on both of us, threatening to crush whatever connection we have left.

“Do you regret it?” I ask softly, the question hanging in the air like a fragile thread. “Do you regret us?”

He finally looks at me, and the intensity in his eyes makes my breath catch. “Never,” he says firmly. “Not for a second.”

His answer is so immediate, so raw, that it leaves me reeling. For all his faults, for all the pain he’s caused, I can see that he means it. And for the first time in years, I feel a flicker of the love I thought I’d buried long ago.

But with that love comes something else—fear. Fear that I’ll let myself trust him again, only to be hurt all over.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “Not completely.”

“I don’t expect you to,” he says, his tone gentle but resolute. “But I’ll keep trying, Zoey. For as long as it takes.”

The sincerity in his voice is almost too much. I nod, unable to find the words to respond, and the silence between us stretches long into the night.

14

COOPER

The scars on my body tell stories I’ve never shared, but the ones in my mind? Those are the ones that haunt me. They’re the ones I’ve spent years burying, pretending they don’t exist. But tonight, as I sit across from Zoey in the dim light of the library, I know there’s no running from them anymore.

She deserves the truth. And if I want any chance of earning her forgiveness, I have to give it to her.

I startwith the night Rosetti’s men took me. It was just after Zoey left—after I let her go. I’d been careless, too consumed by the emptiness she left behind to notice the net tightening around me. They caught me in an ambush, three men dragging me out of my car and into the back of a van before I even had a chance to fight back.

“They took me to some abandoned warehouse on the edge of town,” I tell her, my voice low and steady. “Stripped me of everything—my weapons, my dignity, my sense of control.”

Zoey sits across from me, her arms wrapped around her knees, her face pale but intent. I force myself to keep going, even as the memories claw at my chest.

“They wanted information,” I continue. “Names, locations, leverage to use against me. But when they realized I wouldn’t talk, they decided to make an example out of me instead.”

I pause, the phantom pain of those days surging to the surface. The feel of fists slamming into my ribs, the sting of the knife slicing into my skin, the suffocating darkness when they left me bleeding on the floor. I don’t need to describe it in detail—Zoey’s horrified expression tells me she understands.

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