His Dangerous Love On Ice 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 abandoned 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 retrofitting 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. Red meant you were pushing limits. Blue meant you were being a pussy. White meant you were fast enough to die tonight, maybe not.

But the viewing area was what made this place special.

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. Climate 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 that stopped being funny about seven years ago but stuck anyway.

No cops, no feds, no fucking journalists. You got caught? You kept 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. Protect 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."

"Clear them."

"Zane—"

"Clear them, Nikolai. I’m racing tonight."

He stared at me, then nodded. "Fine. But if you crash and die, I'm not explaining it to Olive."

"If I crash and die, you won't have to."

He walked off to handle it and I leaned against the railing, watching cleanup crew drag the wrecked GT-R off the track.

My phone buzzed.

Olive: Got your present. The keycard thing was overkill, even though I didn’t ask you for it, but thank you. See you at 8?

I stared at her message longer than I should've before typing back.

Me: See you at 8. Wear something you don't mind getting dirty.

Her response came fast.

Olive: That sounds either really fun or really dangerous.

Me: Both.

I pocketed my phone and headed for the garage, where I kept my cars.

Had an hour before I needed to pick up Olive.

Enough time for one race.

Enough time to burn off the rage still clawing at my insides.

Enough time to remember why I built this place—not for money or power or prestige, but because sometimes you needed to go fast enough that your demons couldn't keep up.

I picked the Bugatti Chiron. Matte black. 1500 horsepower. Top speed 261 mph if you had the balls.

Tonight I had the balls.

I slid into the driver's seat. The Engine roared to life. And I pulled onto the track.

Nikolai's voice came through the speakers.

"Alright, you reckless bastard. One lap. Solo run. Try not to kill yourself, son.”

I didn't respond, instead my hands clenched tight against the wheel.

And I hit the accelerator and let everything else disappear.

The first turn came fast—too fast—and I barely held the line, tires screaming in protest. The LED strips flashed red, warning me I was pushing the limits.

I pushed harder.

Second turn, tighter, more technical. I drove harder, felt the car slide, pulled back just in time to avoid the wall.

The long aisle opened up and I floored it, the speedometer climbing up numbers—150, 180, 200—and for a moment, everything else faded.

My father's threats. Olive's safety. The memories I'd been trying to outrun for years.

None of it mattered when I was moving this fast.

The final turn approached—the same one that had taken out the GT-R minutes earlier.

I should've slowed down. Should've played it safe.

I didn't.

I took the turn at full speed, felt the car start to lose grip, felt the back end slide out—

And then I was spinning.

The world became a blur of lights and sound and the sickening crunch of metal hitting concrete.

The car slammed into the wall, hard enough to deploy the airbags, hard enough to crack the windshield, hard enough to knock the air from my lungs.

Then silence.

Complete, total silence.

I sat there for a moment, dazed, my hands still gripping the steering wheel, shaking, giving out loud heavy gasp.

Then the door was yanked open and Nikolai was there, his face pale.

"Are you fucking insane?" he shouted. "You could've died!"

I unbuckled my seatbelt and climbed out, checking myself over. No blood. No broken bones. Just some bruising that would hurt like hell tomorrow.

"I'm fine," I said.

"You're not fine! You just crashed a two-million-dollar car going 200 miles per hour!"

"And I walked away." I looked at the crumpled Bugatti, the front end completely destroyed. "I'll buy another one."

Nikolai grabbed my shoulder, forcing me to look at him. "This isn't about the car. What the hell is going on with you?"

I stared at him, my chest still tight, my hands still shaking from adrenaline.

"I don't know," I admitted quietly. "I don't fucking know anymore."

He studied me for a long moment, then sighed. "Go home. Clean yourself up. And for the love of god, don't tell Olive about this."

"I'm picking her up in an hour."

"Then you'd better hurry."

I nodded and walked toward the exit, leaving the destroyed car and Nikolai's concerned expression behind.

I had a date to get to.

And I couldn't show up looking like I'd just cheated death.

Even if that's exactly what I'd done.