Page 41 of The Mafia’s Second Shot (Burning For You Again #3)

ZOEY

T he hospital room is quiet except for the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor and the occasional rustle of Cooper shifting in his bed. He’s resting now, his face pale but peaceful, and for the first time in what feels like days, my chest doesn’t feel so tight.

Marco and Angelo arrive mid-morning, carrying coffee and breakfast sandwiches.

Their easy camaraderie fills the space, a reminder that the world outside is still moving forward, even as ours feels suspended.

Marco sets the food on the small table near the window, his usual smirk softened by concern.

“You look better than the last time I saw you,” Marco says, nodding toward Cooper.

“Low bar,” Cooper murmurs, his voice rough from disuse.

I laugh softly, shaking my head. “He’s been trying to convince the nurses to let him leave.”

Marco raises an eyebrow, leaning against the wall. “And where exactly do you think you’re going, boss? You’re not even cleared to sit up for long.”

“Anywhere but here,” Cooper replies, but his faint smile betrays the truth—he’s still too weak to go anywhere, and he knows it.

As Marco and Angelo settle in, their conversation turns to the aftermath of the battle. I listen quietly, piecing together the fragments of their updates.

“Rossi’s crew is falling apart,” Marco says, sipping his coffee. “With him gone, the power vacuum’s hitting hard. The lieutenants are fighting among themselves, and the smaller factions are either disbanding or looking for alliances.”

“And the ones who aren’t disbanding?” I ask, my voice steady.

“They’re trying to make deals,” Angelo replies. “We’ve already had a few come forward, offering intel in exchange for protection.”

Marco snorts, his expression skeptical. “Half of them are probably lying through their teeth, but some of the intel checks out.”

“What kind of intel?” Cooper asks, his voice sharper now.

Marco glances at him, then at me, before answering. “Locations of safe houses, stashes of weapons, names of stragglers who might try to regroup. Nothing earth-shattering, but it’s enough to keep us ahead of the game.”

As they continue discussing the fallout, I notice how naturally Marco takes the lead.

He’s confident, decisive, and the others follow his direction without question.

It’s not just loyalty—it’s respect. And for the first time, I start to wonder if this is part of Cooper’s plan.

He’s been quieter since the battle, more reflective, and I can’t shake the feeling that he’s preparing for something.

The conversation shifts when one of Marco’s men knocks on the door, stepping inside with a cautious expression. “We’ve got a few of Rossi’s guys in the warehouse,” he says. “They’re asking for a sit-down.”

Marco’s brow furrows. “What do they want?”

“Protection,” the man replies. “And they’re offering information in return. It sounds legit, but...”

“But you don’t trust them,” Marco finishes, standing. “Smart. I’ll handle it.”

He glances at me, his tone softening. “You coming?”

I hesitate, looking at Cooper. He meets my gaze, his eyes steady. “Go,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The warehouse is a stark contrast to the hospital—cold, industrial, and buzzing with quiet tension.

Marco and I step inside to find three men sitting at a table near the center of the space, their postures wary but not hostile.

Marco’s men flank them, weapons at the ready, though the atmosphere remains more controlled than aggressive.

The leader of the group, a middle-aged man with a scar across his jaw, looks up as we approach. “Marco,” he says, his voice calm. “Thanks for meeting with us.”

“Didn’t have much of a choice,” Marco replies, crossing his arms. “You’re on my turf.”

“Fair enough,” the man says, raising his hands slightly. “We’re not here to cause trouble. Rossi’s gone, and we’ve got no loyalty to what’s left of his crew. We just want a way out.”

Marco’s eyes narrow. “And what do we get in return?”

The man nods toward a folder on the table. “Everything we know—locations, names, plans that were in motion before Rossi went down. You help us disappear, and it’s yours.”

The negotiation is tense, every word weighed carefully. Marco keeps his composure, asking sharp questions and pushing back when the answers don’t satisfy him. I stand off to the side, watching as he handles the situation with a mix of authority and pragmatism.

“You’re asking a lot,” Marco says finally, his tone cool. “How do I know you’re not feeding us bullshit?”

The man spreads his hands. “Check the intel. You’ll see it’s solid. We’ve got no reason to lie—we’re done with this life.”

Marco studies him for a long moment before nodding. “We’ll verify the information. If it checks out, we’ll talk.”

The man exhales, relief flashing across his face. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Marco says, motioning for his men to escort the group out. “We’re not running a charity.”

As the men leave, I turn to Marco, unable to hide my curiosity. “You handled that well.”

He shrugs, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “It’s not my first negotiation.”

“No, but it’s different now,” I say, my voice thoughtful. “You’re not just speaking for yourself. You’re speaking for all of them.”

Marco’s expression shifts, something like pride flickering in his eyes. “I learned from the best.”

Later, back at the hospital, I sit beside Cooper as he picks at the dinner tray the nurses brought him. He looks better—his color is returning, and there’s more energy in his voice—but he’s still far from his usual self.

“Marco’s good at this,” I say, testing the waters.

“He is,” Cooper replies without hesitation. “He always has been.”

I study him for a moment, trying to read his expression. “You trust him to handle it?”

He looks at me then, his gaze steady but unreadable. “I do.”

The weight of his words settles over me, confirming what I’ve suspected. “You’re stepping back, aren’t you?”

Cooper doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is quiet. “I’m thinking about it.”

My chest tightens, a mix of relief and uncertainty washing over me. “What does that mean for us?”

“It means,” he says, reaching for my hand, “that I’m making room for a life I never thought I’d have. For us.”

His words are a promise, one that sends a wave of warmth through me despite the uncertainty. I nod, squeezing his hand. “Whatever you decide, I’m with you.”

He smiles faintly, the lines of exhaustion on his face softening. “I know.”

As I sit with him, the future feels like a distant horizon—unfolding slowly, beautifully, and filled with possibilities I’m finally starting to believe in.