Page 13 of The Mafia’s Second Shot (Burning For You Again #3)

ZOEY

T he house feels different now. Not safer—never safer—but less like a gilded cage and more like a labyrinth of truths waiting to be uncovered.

For the first time, Cooper has promised me honesty, no more half-truths or evasions, and I plan to hold him to it.

If I’m staying here, if I’m letting him pull me back into this world, I need to understand it. I need to understand him.

It starts with questions, tentative at first, but Cooper doesn’t shy away from them.

I ask about the men who work for him—the ones who stand silently at every door, the ones who fought to protect this estate during the attack.

He explains that most of them have been with him for years, some since before he took over the operation.

“They’re loyal,” he says one evening as we sit in the sprawling living room. “Not just to me, but to each other. It’s not just about business—it’s about survival.”

“Survival,” I echo, leaning back against the couch. “That’s what this is to you? Just surviving?”

His eyes flick to mine, and for a moment, I see something raw and unguarded in his expression. “It’s what it has to be.”

I don’t press him further, but the words linger with me long after the conversation ends. It’s what it has to be.

As the days pass, I start to notice the cracks in Cooper’s facade—the moments when the ruthless boss gives way to the man I used to know.

He’s still meticulous, always calculating, but there’s a weight to him that wasn’t there before.

The way his shoulders tense whenever he thinks I’m not looking, the way he scans the room like he’s expecting an attack—it’s like he’s carrying the world on his back, and it’s crushing him slowly.

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 the halls, 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 seemed determined 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.