His Dangerous Love On Ice (Olivia and Zane) novel Chapter 75

ZANE’s POV

The racing club was more than just a club.

It was a cathedral I’d built for speed and sin, carved out of an aldoned subway station three levels below Chicago, deep enough that cops never came sniffing around and the sound never reached anyone who might actually give a shit

I bought the property eleven years ago through a shell company back when I was twenty-two and stupid enough to think racing could fix everything broken inside me. Spent millions retofitting the tunnels and somehow turned it into this thing that existed somewhere between legal and lethal.

The main floor was the track-a quarter mile circuit looping through old subway tunnels, tight corners, and straightaways that separated the guys who actually knew how to drive from the rich audience who thought expensive cars made them invincible.

The walls had LED strips that changed color based on speed, Re being a pussy. White meant you were fast enough to die tonight

But the viewing area was what made this place special.

meant you were pushing limits. Blue meant you were maybe not.

No standing at ground level like some amateur. I’d designed glass cubicles-individual boxes suspended above the track on hydraulic platforms. Four to six people per box. Sound system. limate control. Privacy settings.

Clear glass if you wanted to watch the race.

Tinted black if you wanted privacy.

And yeah, people fucked in them while watching cars hit 200 mph below. I didn’t advertise that feature but everyone figured it out within their first visit.

The cubicles moved up and down depending on what you wanted. Some people liked being close-feeling the vibrations rattle through their bones. Others wanted the aerial view, watching everything like they were gods and we were all just entertainment.

I kept mine mid-level. Close enough to feel alive. Far enough to stay in control.

The club had rules. Break them and you were done.

No phones. No photos. No recordings, What happened here died here, or you never came back.

No real names. Everyone got a callsign. Mine was “Apex”-a joke hat stopped being funny about seven years ago but stuck anyway.

No cops, no feds, no fucking journalists. You got caught? You ke your mouth shut or you disappeared. Simple.

And the big one: No racing unless you could afford to lose everything.

Entry fee was fifty grand just to walk through the door. Want to race? Add another hundred thousand to the pot. Winner took everything. Loser went home with bruises and regret.

We’d had three deaths in ten years. All signed waivers. All families paid off quietly. No investigations. No questions.

Brutal Illegal. Dangerous.

And the only place I’d ever felt like I could actually breathe.

I stepped off the elevator into the observation deck-a circular platform overlooking the entire track-and the noise slammed into me. Engines screaming. Tires shrieking. The crowd was losing its mind as two cars went head-to-head through the final turn.

Nikolai was already there, leaning against the railing with whiskey in his hand like he’d been waiting for me.

“You’re late,” he said without looking over.

“I own the place. I can’t be late.”

“You can when people are asking where the fuck you are.” He finally turned, eyes scanning my face. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

“What happened?”

I didn’t answer. Just watched the race below-Ferrari 488 versus some modified Nissan GT-R Nissan had speed on the straights but the Ferrari handled curves better. Whoever fucked up first was losing.

“DD called me,” Nikolai said after a beat. “Said you ordered a hit on Andrew Cooper’s warehouse.”

“Yeah.”

“And sent revenge porn to his wife.”

“Not revenge porn if he’s the one who filmed it.”

Nikolai sighed—this tired, disappointed sound that made me want to punch him. “When did you get this vindictive?”

“When did you get this pathetic?” I shot back, echoing the same words I spoke to Walter.

He laughed. Dark. Low. “Pathetic? Nah. Concerned? Yeah. You’re burning bridges you might actually need later.”

“Don’t need shit from Andrew Cooper.”

“Maybe not. But his wife’s got connections. Family money. Political pull. You just made an enemy you didn’t have to make.”

“Then I’ll handle her too if she becomes a problem.”

The Ferrari won by half a second. GT-R driver misjudged the final corner, hit the wall, spun out. The crowd went wild.

“You’ve been different lately,” Nikolai said quietly. “Since the girl

“Her name’s Olive.”

“Since Olive,” he corrected. “You’re more reckless. Like you’re trying to prove something.”

“Not trying to prove shit.”

“Then what was today? The merger, your father, destroying Cooper-what’s the endgame?”

I didn’t answer because I didn’t fucking have one.

That was the problem.

For years I’d operated with clear objectives. Build empire. Prote the family that matters. Maintain control. Everything I did. had purpose. Calculated outcomes.

Olive threw all that into chaos.

Made me want things I’d convinced myself I didn’t need. Made me feel shit I’d buried so deep I forgot it existed.

And now my father was threatening to weaponize my past, destroy the one good thing I’d let near me in five years.

“I need to race,” I said suddenly.

Nikolai raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t raced in THREE months

“I know.”

“Track’s occupied for the next hour. Two more races are scheduled.”

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