Deal With The Devilish Wall Street Tycoon

The rideshare car jerked to a stop outside an abandoned industrial park on the edge of Queens.

The driver unlocked the doors. He refused to drive any further into the area, intimidated by the massive floodlights cutting through the dark sky and the deafening roar of high-performance engines.

Ami stepped out into the cold night. Her leather boots sank into a muddy puddle. She ignored the dirt and walked alone toward the chain-link fence that surrounded the makeshift racing track.

Four massive men smelling strongly of motor oil and stale beer blocked the entrance. They crossed their arms, looking down at her.

Ami didn't flinch. She raised her chin and stated that Silas Chandler was expecting her. One of the guards looked suspicious but pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt to check.

A few minutes later, Silas pushed his way through the loud, rowdy crowd. His silver hair caught the harsh light. He grabbed Ami's arm and pulled her inside the gates.

Silas stopped and stared at her tight leather outfit. His jaw practically hit the floor. This was a shocking contrast to the strict, conservative professor he knew in the lecture hall.

Ami ignored his staring. She grabbed his forearm, her fingers digging into his jacket. "Where is Jerad Kidd?" she yelled over the noise.

Silas pointed toward the center of the track. There was a raised VIP viewing area surrounded by a sea of people and exotic sports cars.

Ami pushed her way through the dense crowd. The sharp, toxic smell of burning rubber and cheap alcohol invaded her nose, making her stomach churn.

She finally reached the edge of the VIP section. She looked up and saw him.

Jerad Kidd was sitting on a plush leather sofa. He wore a black motorcycle jacket, the collar slightly open, revealing his throat. He held a glass of amber whiskey in one hand.

Sitting sideways across his lap was a stunning blonde supermodel. She was giggling, peeling a grape, and slowly feeding it past his lips.

Jerad's eyes were half-closed. He looked bored, exuding a dangerous, suffocating aura of a man who cared about absolutely nothing in the world.

Ami stared at the scene. The humiliation and anger boiled in her blood like hot lava.

She thought of her mother's pale face. She thought of the shattered porcelain on her living room floor. She clenched her jaw so hard her teeth ached. She shoved past the last row of fanatic racing fans.

She marched toward the VIP platform, her boots clicking sharply against the concrete.

Frank Baxter, standing near the stairs, spotted her instantly. He signaled two guards, and they immediately stepped in front of Ami, blocking her path like a brick wall.

"You don't belong here. Leave," Frank warned her, his voice cold and professional.

Ami didn't care. She cupped her hands around her mouth and screamed Jerad's name, her voice tearing through the heavy metal music blasting from the speakers.

Jerad, sitting on the sofa, slowly lifted his eyelids. His dark gaze cut through the crowd and landed perfectly on Ami.

For a fraction of a second, as his eyes swept over the tight leather clinging to her curves, a flash of dark surprise crossed his face. But it was instantly replaced by a deep, cruel mockery.

He patted the supermodel's waist, signaling her to get up. He slowly rose to his feet.

Jerad walked to the edge of the VIP platform. He looked down at Ami, who was struggling against the guards like a trapped animal.

He didn't order the guards to let her go. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, watching her desperate struggle like it was an entertaining play.

Suddenly, the aggressive roar of a modified engine shattered the tension. A custom Porsche 911 rolled up to the starting line on the track behind them.

Dean Reyes, the undisputed king of the underground circuit, jumped out of the driver's seat. He looked up at Jerad, raised his middle finger high in the air, and shouted a filthy challenge.

The crowd erupted into absolute madness. Everyone's attention snapped to the starting line, hungry for the deadly race.

Jerad pulled his eyes away from Ami. The boredom vanished from his face, replaced by a bloodthirsty thrill. He turned his back on her and walked down the stairs toward his sleek black Ferrari.

Ami watched her only chance walking away. Her eyes burned red with panic. She fought against the guards' grip with everything she had, but she couldn't break free.