She Jumped: The Mafia King's Eternal Regret

I spent five years protecting Grafton Mcleod, the ruthless King of Chicago. Not because I loved him, but because I swore a blood oath to his dying brother to keep him alive.

On the day my contract ended, I placed my resignation on his desk.

Grafton didn't just refuse it; he laughed.

"You don't resign, Cayla. You belong to me."

He thought I was a jealous, obsessed assistant in love with him. He let his cruel fiancée, Cherrelle, torment me daily.

He forced me to drain my own blood to save her after she faked an accident.

He threw me into a freezing fountain when she lied about me pushing her.

But the final straw came when he dragged me to a syndicate gala. He didn't take me as a guest. He put me on stage, in a silk dress and a collar, and sold me to his enemy for five million dollars.

"This is what happens to property that misbehaves," he sneered as the gavel came down.

I escaped that night, but I didn't run away. I drove to the bridge where his brother died.

I left my phone on the railing and let the icy water take me, finally free of my debt.

It was only when Grafton stood on that bridge, holding my cracked phone, that he learned the truth.

He unlocked it and saw my wallpaper. It wasn't him. It was his dead brother.

And the diary inside revealed that the woman he was about to marry was the one who had ordered the hit that killed him.

Chapter 1

Cayla POV

I signed my death warrant the moment I placed the cream-colored envelope on the Don's desk.

It marked the end of a five-year blood oath that had reduced my soul to ash, yet the ink hadn't even dried before the devil demanded one last sacrifice.

The paper looked stark white against the dark, polished mahogany.

Grafton Mcleod didn't look up.

He was scanning a report on the new shipment coming through the docks, his brow furrowed in that specific way that used to make my heart ache.

Now, it just made me exhausted.

"What is this?" he asked, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the floorboards beneath my feet.

"My resignation," I said.

My voice was steady. It had taken five years of brutal practice to strip it of any tremor.

Grafton finally looked up.

His eyes were the color of a stormy sea-beautiful, destructive, and utterly devoid of mercy. He ruled Chicago with a brutality that made grown men weep, a King built on a throne of bones and blood.

He glanced at the letter, then at me, and let out a short, humorless laugh.

"You don't resign from the Mcleod family, Cayla. You leave in a pine box."

"I'm an Associate, not a Made Man," I corrected him, my tone soft but firm. "And my contract was for five years. Today is the anniversary."

Brooks, the Consigliere standing in the shadows of the corner, went pale.

He knew what I did for this family. He knew I scrubbed the blood from the Persian carpets, paid off the corrupt precinct captains, and managed the legitimate fronts that kept the IRS wolves at bay.

More importantly, he knew why I stayed.

"Five years," Grafton mused, leaning back in his leather chair. "Since Justen died."

The name hung in the air like toxic smoke.

"Yes," I whispered.

I didn't tell him that five years ago, his brother Justen had bled out in my arms. I didn't tell him that with his dying breath, Justen had forced a blood oath upon me.

Protect Grafton. He is volatile. He will burn the city down if he is alone. Watch him for five years. Then you can follow me.

I had kept my promise.

I had been Grafton's shadow, absorbing his cruelty, fixing his catastrophic mistakes, and enduring his scorn without complaint.

"Denied," Grafton said, flicking the envelope off the desk as if it were trash. "You stay until I say you go. Now get out. Cherrelle is waiting for me."

I didn't pick up the letter.

I walked out of the office, my heels clicking on the cold marble, echoing the countdown ticking away in my head.

I drove straight to the Family Cemetery.

It was raining, a cold Chicago drizzle that soaked through my trench coat and chilled me to the bone. I stood before the white marble angel guarding Justen Palmer's grave.

"I did it, Justen," I told the cold stone. "Five years. I kept him alive. I kept him out of prison."

I traced the engraved letters of his name, the stone wet against my fingertips.

"I'm coming now."

I had a plan. Once the oath was fulfilled, I had no reason to keep breathing. The exhaustion was a physical weight, pressing me into the earth.

My phone buzzed against my hip.

It was Brooks.

"Cayla, you need to get to the Cliffside Track. Now."

"I resigned, Brooks."

"It's Grafton. Cherrelle goaded him into a Pink Slip race against the Triads. For the Southside territory."

My stomach dropped.

Grafton was a talented driver, but he was reckless. And the Southside was vital-it was the distribution line Justen had died to secure.

"Why is that my problem?" I asked, though I was already sprinting toward my car.

"Because he's drunk, Cayla. He's going to kill himself."

I drove like a woman possessed.

The Cliffside Track was an illegal strip of asphalt bordering a sheer drop into the lake. I skidded to a halt, gravel spraying, and saw them.

Grafton was leaning against his black Mustang, swaying slightly. Cherrelle was draped over him, laughing, a half-empty bottle of champagne dangling from her fingers.

She looked like a porcelain doll-beautiful, fragile, and utterly empty.

She saw me and sneered.

"Look, Grafton. The help is here."

Grafton pushed off the car, his eyes glassy and unfocused.

"Here to clean up my mess again, Cayla?"

"Get in the passenger seat," I ordered, snatching the keys from his hand before he could react.

"Excuse me?"

"You're in no condition to drive. You lose this race, you lose the territory. You lose the territory, the Commission comes for your head."

I didn't wait for his permission. I shoved him toward the passenger door.

He was too shocked to resist. I slid into the driver's seat, the leather molding to my back like a second skin.

The engine roared to life, a beast waking up in anger.

The Triad driver revved his engine next to us, the sound aggressive and sharp.

The flag dropped.

I floored it.

The world blurred into streaks of gray asphalt and green guardrails. Grafton was shouting something, but I tuned him out, focusing only on the rhythm of the road.

I drove with the surgical precision Justen had taught me.

Tight on the corners. Drafting on the straights.

We were neck and neck. The final turn was coming up. Dead Man's Curve.

The Triad car swerved, trying to run us off the road into the abyss.

I didn't flinch. I held the line.

We crossed the finish line a bumper ahead.

I slammed on the brakes, but the road was slick with oil and rain. The tires lost traction.

The car spun violently.

The guardrail rushed toward us.

In a split second, I made my choice. I yanked the wheel hard to the right, putting my side of the car directly in the path of the impact to shield Grafton.

Metal shrieked in protest.

Glass shattered into a million diamonds.

Pain exploded in my head, white-hot and blinding.

Then, silence.

I tasted copper. My vision was swimming in black ink.

I saw Grafton moving, unhurt. He was shouting my name, but it sounded like he was underwater, miles away.

I fumbled for the pink slip the Triad boss had thrown into the car before the race. My hand was shaking, coated in warm, sticky blood.

I held it out to him.

"You won," I whispered.

The darkness rushed in to greet me, warm and welcoming.

It felt like Justen's hand.