Deal With The Devilish Wall Street Tycoon

As soon as Jerad slid into the driver's seat of the black Ferrari, Frank Baxter gave a sharp nod. The guards released their grip on Ami's arms, knowing the immediate threat to their boss was over.

Ami stumbled forward. She was pushed by the surging crowd until she was pressed flat against the rusted chain-link fence right next to the starting line. Her fingers curled tightly around the metal wire.

A girl in a tiny bikini walked out to the space between the Ferrari and the Porsche. She raised a bright red flag high above her head.

The engines revved simultaneously. The noise was deafening, vibrating right through Ami's chest cavity. The air grew thick with the sharp, toxic smell of high-octane racing fuel.

The red flag slashed down.

Both supercars launched forward like bullets fired from a gun.

The massive wave of displaced air hit Ami, blowing her hair back violently. She instinctively squeezed her eyes shut, her heart pounding frantically against her ribs.

When she opened her eyes, the cars were already gone, swallowed by the darkness at the end of the first straightaway.

A massive LED screen in the center of the track flickered to life, showing a live feed from a drone flying above the race.

Ami stared at the screen, her breath caught in her throat. The black Ferrari was tearing down a narrow coastal highway built into the side of a cliff, pushing over two hundred miles per hour.

The drone camera zoomed in as they approached a notorious section the locals called the "Death Hairpin."

Instead of hitting the brakes, Jerad yanked the emergency brake.

The back end of the Ferrari swung out violently. The rear bumper literally scraped the very edge of the cliff where there was no guardrail. A shower of loose rocks tumbled down into the black ocean below.

The crowd screamed in pure adrenaline. Ami felt a suffocating terror grip her throat. She couldn't understand why this man treated his own life like it was completely worthless.

Dean's Porsche was right on Jerad's tail. On the next straightaway, Dean aggressively swerved, trying to clip the back of the Ferrari to spin Jerad out of control.

Jerad's hands moved with terrifying precision. He made micro-adjustments to the steering wheel, dodging every lethal strike with inches to spare.

Minutes later, the screech of burning brakes echoed across the lot. Both cars crossed the finish line side-by-side.

The digital timer on the big screen flashed. The milliseconds were identical. It was a dead tie.

The crowd fell into a stunned, dead silence for two seconds before erupting into a chaotic roar.

Dean Reyes kicked his car door open. His face was twisted in violent rage. He stomped over to the black Ferrari.

Jerad rolled down his window. He rested one arm casually on the steering wheel, his eyes as calm as if he were reading a morning newspaper.

Dean slammed his fist hard onto the roof of the Ferrari. He screamed over the crowd, demanding a "Death Co-pilot" tiebreaker.

He yelled out the insane rules: The track lights would be completely shut off. Pitch black. The drivers must be blindfolded.

The only way to navigate the deadly cliffside roads would be to rely entirely on a passenger sitting in the co-pilot seat, reading the turns off a glowing GPS screen.

If the passenger called the turn even a tenth of a second too late, both the driver and the passenger would fly off the cliff and die.

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. This wasn't racing; this was a suicide pact.

Jerad raised an eyebrow. He slowly turned his head and looked up at the VIP platform, locking eyes with Noel Leon, the blonde supermodel.

Noel's face drained of all color. She shook her head frantically, stumbling backward away from the railing, making it clear she would rather die than get in that car.

Dean threw his head back and laughed. He mocked Jerad loudly, shouting that Jerad wasn't man enough to find a woman willing to die with him.

Jerad's eyes went ice cold. He opened his mouth, clearly about to reject the ridiculous challenge.

Suddenly, a clear, cold, and unwavering female voice sliced through the heavy noise of the crowd.

"I'll do it."

Every single head turned. Ami Cleveland lifted the yellow caution tape and ducked under it. She walked with steady, deliberate steps straight toward the black Ferrari.