Page 4 of The Mafia's Second Shot

ZOEY

The soft hum of the gallery’s lights fills the silence, usually a comforting sound, but today it sets my nerves on edge. I run my fingers over the glossy surface of a painting, trying to ground myself in the textures and colors. But no matter how hard I focus, I can’t shake the image of Cooper standing in that alley, his shadow casting a long, unrelenting mark over my thoughts.

“Everything okay?” Alice’s voice startles me. I glance over to see my best friend standing in the doorway of the gallery’s back office, her arms crossed and her dark curls framing her face in a halo of suspicion.

“Fine,” I lie, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “Just a long night.”

Alice narrows her eyes and steps closer, her boots clicking on the polished floors. “Uh-huh. That ‘long night’ wouldn’t have anything to do with why you looked like you saw a ghost when you walked in this morning?”

I sigh, turning my attention back to the painting in front of me. “I’m fine, Alice. Really.”

“You’re not fine,” she counters, leaning on the counter beside me. “You’re jumpy as hell, and you’ve been zoning out for hours. What’s going on, Zoey?”

The thing about Alice is she doesn’t let things go. She’s like a dog with a bone, and if I don’t give her something, she’ll keep digging until she gets it. But what can I say? That I ran into my ex, who just so happens to be tangled up in God-knows-what dangerous mess? That he saved me from two guys who probably wanted to kill me?

I shake my head. “It’s nothing. Just some creeps last night. I’m fine now.”

Alice’s eyebrows shoot up. “Creeps? What kind of creeps? Did you call the police?”

I laugh, but it comes out brittle and hollow. “No, it wasn’t like that. Just... I handled it.”

“You handled it?” She doesn’t buy it for a second. “Zoey, come on. You’re scaring me.”

I meet her gaze, and for a second, I consider telling her everything. About the men in the alley. About Cooper. About the way his presence dredged up every painful memory I thought I’d buried. But I can’t. Not yet.

“It’s fine,” I say again, my voice firmer this time. “Can we drop it?”

Alice stares at me for a long moment, her lips pressing into a thin line. Finally, she sighs. “Fine. But don’t think I’m letting thisgo. If you don’t talk to me, I’ll start guessing, and you know how creative I can get.”

I smile despite myself. “Noted.”

Alice huffs and heads back to the office, leaving me alone with the paintings and the endless churn of my thoughts. I try to busy myself with work, rearranging displays and checking inventory, but the minutes crawl by. Every time the gallery door opens, my heart skips a beat, expecting to see Cooper’s face again—or worse, those men from the alley.

By mid-afternoon,I’m barely holding it together. The bell above the door jingles as the last customer leaves, and I finally exhale, letting my shoulders slump. I grab my bag and lock up, ready to head home and crawl under the covers until this day is over.

As I step outside, a sleek black car parked across the street catches my eye. It’s unremarkable at first glance, but something about it makes my skin crawl. The tinted windows are rolled up, and the engine is off, but I can’t shake the feeling that someone inside is watching me.

Paranoia, Zoey. Stop it.

I force myself to keep walking, my pace quickening as I head toward the subway. I glance back once, but the car hasn’t moved. Still, my unease lingers like a shadow, clinging to me even as I descend the stairs into the station.

By the timeI get home, I’m exhausted. I toss my bag on the couch and kick off my shoes, desperate for some peace and quiet. But as I head to the kitchen, something on the coffee table stops me cold.

An envelope. Cream-colored, thick, and utterly unfamiliar.

My breath catches. I didn’t leave it there.

With trembling hands, I pick it up and turn it over. No name. No address. Just a simple wax seal on the back. My heart pounds as I break the seal and pull out the folded sheet of paper inside.

The message is short, written in neat, blocky handwriting:

“Ask Cooper for the truth. Before it’s too late.”

The words blur as I read them again and again, trying to make sense of them. My chest tightens, and a cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. This can’t be real. Someone was in my apartment. Someone knows about Cooper.

I sink onto the couch, clutching the note like it might burn me. Questions swirl in my mind, each one louder than the last. Who left this? What truth am I supposed to ask Cooper about? And why does it feel like my past is closing in on me, faster than I can escape?

For a moment, I consider calling him. The thought makes my stomach churn, but if anyone knows what’s going on, it’s him. Still, the idea of hearing his voice—of letting him back into my life, even for a moment—feels like reopening a wound that never fully healed.

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