The yellow cab slammed on its brakes outside the iron gates of the Cleveland family estate in Long Island. Ami threw a crumpled hundred-dollar bill at the driver and scrambled out into the rain.

She froze. The massive, ornate iron gates had been violently forced open. One side hung off its hinges.

Ami splashed through the muddy puddles in the driveway. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Three black Range Rovers were parked directly on the front lawn, their heavy tires tearing up her mother's favorite rose beds.

She ran up the steps and pushed open the heavy oak front doors. The grand living room was a disaster zone. Shards of antique porcelain vases covered the expensive rugs.

Four men in cheap, ill-fitting suits and visible neck tattoos were violently ripping priceless oil paintings off the walls, tossing them onto the floor.

"Stop it!" Ami screamed, her voice echoing off the high ceilings.

The man who appeared to be the leader turned around. He had a thick scar across his jaw. He looked Ami up and down, a nasty, predatory smile spreading across his face.

He walked slowly toward her. He pulled a crumpled legal document from his jacket and slapped it hard against Ami's chest.

"You have forty-eight hours," the man growled. "If we don't see the fifty million dollar bridge loan repayment by then, we take everything. Including your mother's life."

Ami's knees wanted to buckle, but she forced her spine straight. She glared at him. "This house is under a trust fund. You have no legal right to seize it."

The man let out a harsh laugh. He reached out and grabbed the lapels of her trench coat, yanking her forward. The sickening smell of stale cigarette smoke and unwashed bodies hit her face.

"The law is just a suggestion for us, sweetheart," he whispered, his spit hitting her cheek. "Accidents happen all the time."

"Let her go!"

The sharp, authoritative voice of Else Odom rang out from the top of the stairs.

Ami looked up. Else was walking down the stairs, heavily leaning on the old butler. Her face was ashen, but her eyes still held the fierce authority of a woman who had run a corporate empire.

The leader let go of Ami's coat. He looked up at Else, whistled disrespectfully, and motioned for his men. They walked out, their heavy boots crunching on the broken porcelain.

The front door slammed shut. Ami immediately ran to the stairs and caught her mother just as Else's legs gave out.

Else gripped Ami's arm tightly and dragged her into the study. She locked the heavy mahogany door behind them. Her hands shook violently as she opened the wall safe and pulled out a thick manila envelope.

She shoved the envelope into Ami's hands. Inside was a fake passport with Ami's photo and a one-way first-class ticket to Switzerland.

"You leave tonight," Else ordered, tears finally spilling down her wrinkled cheeks. "I have already prepared my statement. I will take all the federal securities fraud charges."

Ami stared at the ticket. The dam broke. Tears flooded her eyes. She shook her head wildly, stepping back.

She looked her mother dead in the eye. With trembling hands, she grabbed the ticket and ripped it in half. Then she ripped it again, letting the pieces fall to the floor.

Else gasped. Her eyes widened in shock. She raised her hand, intending to slap Ami across the face for her disobedience, but her arm dropped weakly to her side.

Ami fell to her knees. She grabbed her mother's cold, shaking hands and pressed them to her wet cheeks. "I found a way to get the money. I promise you."

Else smiled a broken, hopeless smile. She shook her head. "No one on Wall Street will lend to the Cleveland family now. We are toxic."

Ami didn't say Jerad Kidd's name. She just looked up and said, "I'm going to see an invisible billionaire. He has the money."

After helping her exhausted mother to the sofa, Ami walked up the stairs to her bedroom. Ami paced anxiously in the quiet room, waiting for the cover of darkness. The trauma of the morning, waking up naked and vulnerable to a stranger, suddenly crashed over her with crushing weight. She sank to the floor, her body trembling violently as the fear and humiliation she had been suppressing finally broke through. She wrapped her arms tightly around her knees, letting out a stifled, agonizing sob. But as she looked up and caught her tear-streaked reflection in the mirror, the image of her mother's pale, desperate face flashed in her mind. She couldn't afford to be weak. She bit down hard on her lower lip, forcing the tears to stop, and slowly stood up. It wasn't until the clock on the wall struck eight PM that she opened her massive walk-in closet.

She stripped off the ruined evening gown. She reached into the back of her closet and pulled out a pair of tight black leather pants and a fitted leather motorcycle jacket.

She pulled her long hair up into a tight, high ponytail. She stared at the woman in the mirror. Her eyes were red, but they were sharp and dangerous. She looked like a completely different person.

She opened her designer clutch, pulled out the heavy platinum Kidd family cufflink, and slipped it into the inner pocket of her leather jacket. It was her psychological armor.

Ami slipped out the back door of the estate, disappearing into the cold, rainy New York night, heading straight for Queens.

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.

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.