Page 47 of The Mafia’s Second Shot (Burning For You Again #3)
ZOEY
T he days leading up to the gallery exhibit pass in a whirlwind of preparation.
My art supplies are scattered across every available surface in our apartment—brushes, canvases, tubes of paint, and sketches that didn’t make the cut.
Cooper doesn’t complain about the mess, though.
If anything, he seems amused by it, stepping carefully around the chaos with his signature smirk.
“You sure you don’t want me to help clean up?” he asks one morning, leaning against the doorway of my makeshift studio.
“Nope,” I reply, not looking up from the canvas I’m working on. “This is organized chaos. I know exactly where everything is.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, clearly unconvinced. “If you say so.”
Despite my determination to focus, doubt creeps in at the edges. Each piece I finish feels like a small victory, but it’s followed quickly by a nagging voice in the back of my mind. What if it’s not good enough? What if no one likes it? What if I fail?
Cooper seems to sense my unease, stepping into the room and crossing to my side. He rests a hand on my shoulder, his touch grounding me. “You’re overthinking again.”
I sigh, setting down my brush. “How can I not? This is my first exhibit, Cooper. What if no one buys anything? What if people just... walk past my work without even noticing?”
“Then they’re idiots,” he says simply. “Because your work is incredible.”
I give him a weak smile, my chest tightening with gratitude. “You have to say that. You’re biased.”
“I don’t have to say anything,” he counters, his tone firm. “I’m saying it because it’s true. You’ve put your heart into this, Zoey. That’s what makes it special.”
His words hit me harder than I expect, and I lean into him, letting his arms wrap around me. “I just... I don’t want to fail.”
“You won’t,” he says, his voice steady. “And even if you did, you’d get back up. Because that’s who you are.”
The night of the exhibit arrives faster than I’m ready for. Cooper insists on driving, his calm presence a lifeline as my nerves threaten to overwhelm me. The gallery is already buzzing when we arrive, the soft hum of conversation mingling with the clinking of glasses.
“Ready?” Cooper asks, offering me his hand as we step inside.
“No,” I admit, taking his hand anyway. “But let’s do this.”
The gallery space feels surreal, my work displayed alongside pieces from other emerging artists. Each painting is carefully lit, the colors and textures coming alive in a way I hadn’t fully appreciated until now. People mill about, studying the pieces, their expressions thoughtful.
Evelyn, the gallery director, approaches with a warm smile. “Zoey, you made it! Everything looks wonderful.”
“Thank you,” I manage, though my voice wavers. “It’s... a lot to take in.”
She laughs softly, placing a reassuring hand on my arm. “That’s normal. But trust me—your work speaks for itself.”
As the evening progresses, I find myself drawn into conversations with patrons, each interaction chipping away at my nerves. Some ask about my inspiration, others about my process, and with each question, I feel a little more confident.
Cooper stays close, his quiet support a steady presence. I catch him more than once redirecting attention to my work, subtly steering conversations back to the pieces I’m most proud of.
“You’re shameless,” I whisper to him during a lull.
He grins. “Just doing my part.”
The moment that truly breaks through my doubt comes when a young woman approaches me, her expression hesitant but earnest. “Hi,” she says softly.
“I just wanted to tell you... your work is beautiful. It’s so raw and emotional.
It... it reminded me of something I’ve been through, and it really moved me. ”
Her words take me by surprise, a lump forming in my throat. “Thank you,” I say, my voice barely audible. “That means a lot.”
She nods, her gaze lingering on one of the paintings. “I bought it, by the way. The one with the red background and the figure in shadow.”
“You did?” I ask, my heart skipping a beat.
“Yes,” she says, her smile widening. “I couldn’t leave without it.”
I watch as she walks away, my chest swelling with a mix of pride and relief. Cooper steps up beside me, his hand resting lightly on my back. “Told you,” he says simply.
By the end of the night, several pieces have sold, and Evelyn is practically glowing with excitement. “This is just the beginning, Zoey,” she tells me. “I can’t wait to see what you do next.”
The words sink in slowly, but when they do, they fill me with a sense of possibility I haven’t felt in years. For the first time, I start to believe that this dream might actually be within reach.
When we arrive home, I’m too exhausted to do much more than kick off my shoes and collapse onto the couch. Cooper joins me, handing me a glass of wine before settling in beside me.
“You were incredible tonight,” he says, his voice low and warm. “I’m so proud of you.”
“Thank you,” I reply, leaning against him. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“That’s not true,” he says. “You’ve always had this in you. I just made sure you didn’t talk yourself out of it.”
As the wine and the events of the evening begin to catch up with me, Cooper stands, holding out a hand. “Come on.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Where?”
“You’ll see,” he says, his smirk teasing.
Too tired to argue, I let him pull me to my feet and lead me to the bedroom. When I step inside, I stop short, my breath catching. The room is lit with soft candlelight, the warm glow casting everything in a golden hue. On the bed is a small bouquet of wildflowers, their colors vibrant and alive.
“Cooper,” I whisper, turning to him. “What is this?”
He shrugs, his grin softening. “Just wanted to do something special. You deserve it.”
Emotion wells up in my chest, and I step closer, wrapping my arms around him. “You’re too good to me.”
“Not possible,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my hair.
As we stand there, the room bathed in light and warmth, I feel the weight of the night melt away. This is more than I ever thought I’d have—success, love, and the promise of a future worth fighting for.
And I can’t wait to see where it takes us next.