Page 23 of The Mafia’s Second Shot (Burning For You Again #3)
COOPER
T he cabin is silent except for the occasional crackle of the fire.
Outside, the world feels impossibly still, as if the chaos of my life has been swallowed by the mountains.
It’s a rare kind of calm, one I haven’t felt in years, but I can’t let myself relax completely.
I’ve learned the hard way that peace is temporary.
I sit by the window, my eyes scanning the tree line for any signs of movement. Nothing. Just the wind rustling through the pines. My Glock rests on the table beside me, close enough to grab if I need it.
Zoey is in the kitchen, her soft hums carrying through the open space.
She’s cleaning up from breakfast, and I can hear the clink of dishes and the faint sound of running water.
It’s such a normal scene, so far removed from the violence and betrayal that define my world, that it almost feels like a dream.
But the guilt weighs heavy on me, as it always does. I dragged her into this—into my life, my choices, my war. No matter how hard I try to protect her, I can’t erase the danger that follows me wherever I go. And no matter how much I want to give her the life she deserves, I don’t know if I can.
“Do you ever stop watching the window?” Zoey’s voice pulls me from my thoughts.
I turn to see her standing in the doorway, a dishtowel slung over her shoulder. There’s a small smile on her lips, but her eyes are sharp, like she’s studying me.
“Old habits,” I say with a shrug, leaning back in the chair.
She walks over and sits on the armrest of the couch, her gaze flicking between me and the window. “Do you ever let yourself relax?”
“Not really,” I admit.
She sighs, her shoulders slumping slightly. “I figured.”
The silence stretches between us, comfortable but heavy with unspoken words. I want to ask her what she’s thinking, but I’m afraid of the answer.
“You’ve told me a lot about your life now,” she says suddenly, her voice soft. “But what about before all of this? Before... everything?”
I glance at her, surprised. “You want to know about my childhood?”
She nods, her expression curious. “If you’re willing to share.”
I hesitate. Talking about the past isn’t something I do often—if ever. But there’s something in her eyes, a quiet sincerity, that makes me want to give her this piece of myself.
“I grew up in a rough neighborhood,” I start, my voice low. “My dad was... let’s just say he wasn’t a good man. He ran with dangerous people, did dangerous things. My mom tried to shield me from it, but there was only so much she could do.”
Zoey listens intently, her hands resting in her lap. “What about school? Friends?”
I let out a bitter laugh. “School wasn’t much better. I was the kid everyone stayed away from because they knew my dad was trouble. And friends? I had a few, but most of them didn’t stick around.”
She frowns, her brow furrowing. “That sounds... lonely.”
“It was,” I admit, the words heavier than I expected. “But it taught me a lot. How to survive, how to read people, how to keep myself safe.”
Zoey leans forward slightly, her gaze locked on mine. “And what about now? Do you still feel like you’re just surviving?”
The question catches me off guard, and I’m not sure how to answer. Am I still surviving? Or have I moved beyond that? I don’t know.
“Sometimes,” I say finally. “But not when I’m with you.”
The words slip out before I can think better of them, and for a moment, the air between us feels charged. Zoey’s cheeks flush, but she doesn’t look away.
She shifts on the couch, pulling her legs up beneath her. “What about your mom?” she asks, changing the subject. “What happened to her?”
“She died when I was eighteen,” I say quietly. “Cancer. By then, my dad was long gone, so it was just me.”
Zoey reaches out, her hand brushing against mine. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too,” I reply, my voice rough. “She deserved better.”
Her touch lingers for a moment before she pulls back, folding her hands in her lap. “Thank you for telling me. I know it’s not easy.”
“It’s easier with you,” I admit, surprising even myself.
She smiles faintly, and for the first time in days, the tension in my chest eases.
As the night wears on, we sit together on the couch, the fire casting a warm glow over the room. Zoey leans against me, her head resting on my shoulder, and I feel her hand slide into mine. It’s a small gesture, but it carries more weight than I can put into words.
In this moment, with her beside me, I feel something I haven’t felt in a long time: hope.