Cayla POV
The chill in my apartment wasn't just the draft; it was a sterile, quiet cold that settled deep in the lungs.
I sat on the hexagonal tiles of the bathroom floor, the ceramic biting into my skin as I stitched the jagged cut on my forehead. I used a needle and thread scavenged from the first aid kit.
A mob doctor had taught me the trick of it years ago, his hands steady while mine had shaken.
Bite down on a towel, Cayla. It hurts less if you don't scream.
I tied off the knot, my fingers slick with blood, and glanced at Justen's photo propped against the vanity mirror.
"I tried to come to you," I told him, my voice hollow in the empty room. "The car crash was supposed to be it."
My phone rang.
It was Grafton.
"Where are you?"
"Home."
"Get to the bakery on 4th. Cherrelle wants the raspberry torte. The specific one with the gold leaf."
I closed my eyes, the fever throbbing behind my eyelids. "Grafton, it's pouring rain. And it's across the city."
"Did I ask for a weather report?"
The line went dead.
I didn't argue. I didn't have the energy for rebellion. I put on my coat.
I drove through the storm, the windshield wipers fighting a losing battle against the deluge, the rhythm hypnotizing and cruel.
I secured the cake like it was a transplant organ.
I stood outside the penthouse door, shivering, water dripping from the ends of my hair onto the expensive, satin-finish box.
Grafton opened the door.
He looked at me-soaking wet, my skin pale as the ghost I wished I was.
For a second, something flickered in his eyes. Guilt? Or just the discomfort of seeing a broken thing he used to own?
Then Cherrelle appeared behind him.
"Finally!" She snatched the box.
She opened it, took a fork, and ate a bite.
She made a face, wrinkling her nose with theatrical disgust.
"Ew. It's too sweet. I can't eat this."
She dropped the box into the trash can with a careless thud.
"Grafton, tell her to go to the North branch. Theirs is better."
I stood there, swaying slightly as the fever burned through my veins like wildfire.
"Cherrelle," Grafton said, his voice hesitant. "It's a storm out there."
"So?" She pouted, tilting her head. "It's my party tonight. Do you not want me to be happy?"
Grafton looked at her, then at me.
He made his choice.
"Go to the North branch, Cayla."
I went.
By the time I returned, the silence of the drive had been replaced by chaos. The party was in full swing.
Heavy bass thumped through the floorboards, vibrating in my aching teeth.
Capos and soldiers were drinking, laughing, their voices a jagged wall of sound.
I placed the second cake on the table.
My vision was blurring, the room tilting on its axis.
"A toast!" Cherrelle shouted, standing on a chair.
She held up a bottle of amber liquid.
"To Grafton! The King of Chicago!"
She poured a glass and held it to his lips.
"Drink, baby."
I froze.
It was a rare Japanese whiskey.
Grafton was deathly allergic to a specific additive used in that brand's aging process. Justen had told me. It caused anaphylaxis within minutes-a throat closing tight as a fist.
Grafton hesitated. He knew it too.
But everyone was watching.
Cherrelle was smiling, challenging him.
"What's wrong? Don't you trust me?"
Brooks stepped forward, his face tense. "Miss Hughes, the Don shouldn't-"
"Shut up, Brooks!" she snapped. "It's a Loyalty Test. Drink it, Grafton."
Grafton's hand trembled as he took the glass.
He was too proud to refuse in front of his men. He would rather die than look weak.
He raised it to his lips.
I moved.
I didn't think; I just acted. I snatched the glass from his hand.
"What do you think you're doing?" Cherrelle shrieked.
"He's driving later," I lied, my voice raspy. "I'll drink it."
I downed the glass in one swallow.
It burned like acid, searing a path down my throat.
"Another one!" Cherrelle yelled, furious that I had ruined her moment. "If you're so loyal, drink the bottle!"
I poured another glass.
I drank it.
And another.
The room started to spin, faces melting into smears of color.
I finished the bottle and slammed it onto the table.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out his EpiPen and antihistamines, sliding them discreetly into Grafton's palm.
"Take them," I whispered, my words slurring. "Just in case."
Grafton looked at the meds in his hand.
He looked at me, swaying, eyes unfocused.
He didn't see a woman saving his life.
He saw a drunk, jealous ex-assistant making a scene.
"You're a mess, Cayla," he muttered, pocketing the meds.
He turned back to Cherrelle, who was clapping.
I stumbled to the corner and sank into a velvet armchair.
My throat was closing up.
Not from an allergy.
But from the sheer, suffocating weight of loving a ghost in a house of demons.
