Page 7 of The Mafia’s Second Shot (Burning For You Again #3)

ZOEY

I tell myself I can handle this. That I don’t need Cooper to protect me, and I definitely don’t need him worming his way back into my life.

But the truth is, he’s already here—watching, guarding, taking up space in my apartment and my thoughts.

No matter how much I fight it, I’m being pulled into his orbit, the way I was years ago.

It’s maddening.

Because despite everything—the lies, the danger, the heartbreak—I still feel the weight of his presence.

It’s in the way he watches the room like a hawk, assessing every exit and shadow.

The way his jaw tightens every time I catch him staring at me.

The way he steps just slightly between me and the door whenever we’re in the same space, like he’s shielding me from something only he can see.

But there’s something else, too. A darkness that wasn’t there before, or maybe one I never noticed. It’s in his eyes, in the tight lines of his face when he thinks I’m not looking. He’s carrying something heavy, something that drags him down no matter how hard he tries to hide it.

And I hate that a part of me still cares.

I head to the gallery early, hoping to escape his presence for a while.

Work has always been my sanctuary—a place where I can lose myself in the vibrant colors and textures of the art, the calm of arranging displays, the satisfaction of a well-organized space.

But even here, I can’t shake the weight of the last few days.

Every noise, every shadow feels like a threat waiting to pounce.

By mid-morning, the gallery is quiet, the kind of stillness I usually love. But today it feels oppressive. I’m in the back, unpacking a new shipment, when the front door chimes. I freeze, my heart lurching into my throat.

“Zoey?” Cooper’s voice calls out, calm but commanding.

I exhale sharply, rolling my eyes as I head to the front. “You have to stop showing up unannounced,” I say, my irritation clear.

“You’ll thank me in a second,” he replies, standing near the door with his arms crossed. His eyes are locked on a man by the counter, who’s holding a small package.

The man looks up, startled, and I immediately recognize him as one of the couriers we use for deliveries. But something about him seems off—his nervous posture, the way his eyes dart between me and Cooper.

“What’s going on?” I ask, stepping closer.

“This guy says he’s got something for you,” Cooper says, his tone flat but deadly. “Mind telling me who sent it?”

The courier fumbles with the package, his hands shaking. “I-I don’t know,” he stammers. “I’m just the delivery guy.”

Cooper steps forward, his presence overwhelming the room. “Try again.”

The courier pales, his gaze flicking to me for help. “Look, I don’t want any trouble. I was just told to drop this off. That’s it.”

Cooper grabs the package from him and nods toward the door. “You’re done here. Go.”

The courier doesn’t need to be told twice. He bolts, leaving the door swinging shut behind him. I glare at Cooper, my hands on my hips.

“Was that necessary?” I demand. “He was just doing his job.”

“His job,” Cooper says, holding up the package, “was to deliver this. And I’ll bet anything it’s not something you want.”

He pulls a knife from his pocket and slices through the tape before I can protest. The box falls open, revealing its contents: a single black rose, wilted and dry, with a note attached. The words are short, written in sharp, jagged handwriting.

“You’re next.”

My blood runs cold. I take a step back, my legs threatening to give out beneath me.

“Zoey,” Cooper says softly, his voice pulling me back to the moment. “Look at me.”

I meet his eyes, and for the first time, I don’t see the anger or frustration I’ve grown used to. I see concern—raw and unguarded.

“This is why you need to stay with me,” he says, his tone firm but gentle. “They’re not going to stop, and you’re not safe here.”

I shake my head, trying to summon the strength to argue, but the words won’t come. The rose, the note—they’re too much. Too real.

“Just for a few days,” he adds. “Until I can figure out who’s behind this.”

My chest tightens. The last thing I want is to let him back into my life, to depend on him for anything. But the alternative? Staying here, waiting for the next threat to arrive?

“Fine,” I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper. “But this is temporary. And there are rules.”

His lips twitch in a ghost of a smile. “Rules?”

I cross my arms, finding strength in the act of standing my ground. “Yes. No hovering. No trying to control my life. And definitely no... no pretending like we’re anything more than what we are.”

“Deal,” he says without hesitation. But the way he looks at me, like he’s trying to unravel every layer I’ve built around myself, makes me doubt he means it.

Cooper’s estate is exactly what I expected: sprawling, sterile, and completely impersonal. The kind of place that screams wealth and power but lacks any warmth or humanity. It’s a stark contrast to my cozy, art-filled apartment, and I hate it instantly.

“This is your room,” he says, opening a door near the end of a long hallway. The space inside is spacious but cold, with neutral tones and minimal furniture. “You’ll be safe here.”

I nod, stepping inside and setting my bag on the bed. “Thanks,” I say, though the word feels foreign on my tongue.

He lingers in the doorway, his eyes scanning the room like he’s cataloging every detail. “If you need anything?—”

“I won’t,” I interrupt, cutting him off. “I’m fine.”

He hesitates, like he wants to say more, but then he nods and steps back. “Goodnight, Zoey.”

“Goodnight,” I reply, though I don’t look at him as he closes the door behind him.

The room feels too big, too empty. I sit on the bed, letting the silence stretch around me like a second skin. My gaze drifts to the nightstand, where a small, decorative box sits. Curious, I open it—and my breath catches.

Inside is a simple silver bracelet, the one Cooper gave me on our first anniversary. I thought I’d lost it years ago, but here it is, gleaming under the soft light.

Memories flood back—of laughter, of stolen kisses, of nights spent tangled in each other’s arms. Of the way he used to look at me, like I was his whole world.

I slam the box shut, my chest tightening with a mix of anger and longing. I don’t know why he kept it, or why it’s here now, but it doesn’t matter.

Because no matter what he says, no matter what he does, I can’t let myself forget who he really is—or the danger that follows him.