Page 31 of The Mafia's Second Shot

The cabin is tuckeddeep into the woods, nearly invisible until we’re right in front of it. It’s a small, sturdy structure with a sloping roof and a wraparound porch, surrounded by toweringpine trees. The air here is crisp and cold, and the only sounds are the rustle of leaves and the distant chirping of birds.

“It’s... quiet,” I say as I step out of the car, my breath visible in the chilly air.

“That’s the point,” Cooper replies, grabbing our bags from the trunk. “No one’s going to find us here.”

I follow him inside, and the interior is just as unassuming as the exterior. A stone fireplace dominates one wall, and the furniture is simple but comfortable—well-worn armchairs, a sturdy wooden table, and a few shelves stocked with books and board games. It feels almost normal, like a place where people come to escape the noise of the world.

“You’ve been here before?” I ask, setting my bag down near the couch.

“A few times,” he says, heading toward the kitchen. “It’s one of the safe houses I keep off the grid. No one knows about it except Marco and a few others.”

I wander to the window, staring out at the trees. The isolation is jarring after the constant activity of the estate, but it’s not unwelcome. Still, a part of me can’t shake the unease bubbling beneath the surface.

“What’s on your mind?” Cooper asks, his voice drawing me back to the room.

I turn to find him leaning against the kitchen counter, his arms crossed. “Do you really think we’ll be safe here?” I ask.

His expression softens, and he walks over to me, his steps slow and deliberate. “Yes,” he says simply. “I wouldn’t have brought you here if I thought otherwise.”

“But for how long?” I press, my voice trembling. “Rossi’s not going to stop, is he? No matter where we go, no matter what we do, he’ll keep coming.”

He reaches for my hands, his touch warm and grounding. “I can’t promise he won’t try,” he admits. “But I can promise that as long as you’re with me, I’ll do everything in my power to keep you safe.”

The sincerity in his voice is enough to ease the edges of my fear, though it doesn’t erase it entirely. I nod, letting out a shaky breath. “Okay.”

The hours pass slowlyas we settle into the cabin. Cooper busies himself with practical tasks—checking the locks, setting up a small generator, unpacking supplies. I try to help, but my anxiety makes me clumsy, and after nearly dropping a box of canned goods, I give up and sit at the kitchen table.

“You’re not used to the quiet, are you?” he asks, setting a pot of water on the stove.

“Not really,” I admit, resting my chin in my hand. “It’s strange. Peaceful, but strange.”

He smiles faintly, and for a moment, I catch a glimpse of the Cooper I used to know—the one who could make me laugh even on my worst days. “You’ll get used to it,” he says. “Might even like it.”

“Doubtful,” I mutter, but there’s no bite in my tone.

As he starts preparing dinner, I watch him move around the kitchen with surprising ease. He’s not just competent—he’s comfortable, like he’s done this a hundred times before. It’s aside of him I’ve never seen, and it stirs something inside me that I can’t quite name.

“What?” he asks, catching me staring.

“Nothing,” I say quickly, though my cheeks flush. “Just didn’t know you could cook.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” he replies, his tone light but tinged with something deeper.

I open my mouth to respond, but he cuts me off with a sly grin. “And yes, I can cook. I had to learn after one too many late nights with nothing but takeout.”

“Impressive,” I say, trying to hide my smile.

“You haven’t tasted it yet,” he teases, stirring a pot of soup on the stove. “Hold your applause.”

Dinner issimple but surprisingly good. We sit at the small kitchen table, laughing about the absurdity of our situation—two people hiding out in the middle of nowhere, trying to pretend life is normal. For a little while, it almost feels like it is.

“You have something on your face,” he says, pointing to the corner of his mouth.

I reach up, wiping at my cheek. “Did I get it?”

“Not even close,” he says, leaning forward to brush his thumb against my skin. The touch is fleeting but leaves a warmth that lingers long after he pulls away.

“Thanks,” I say softly, my heart pounding in my chest.

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