Ronan Race Six - South Beach Guillotine
Ronan
He didn’t fear death. He feared losing her.
Race Six: South Beach Guillotine
South Beach smells like money, rot, and stale liquor.
The kind of place where men like me die believing they’re immortal because someone once knew their name.
My Camaro idles beneath palm shadows and neon glare. The crowd tonight is louder than it’s been all week—more phones, more faces. More people will experience the carnage tonight. This is the race people crave to see, the one that decides who’s going to run the final.
Across the line waits Tate Lennox.
South Beach Syndicate’s favorite son.
He leans against his McLaren 720S, carbon fiber gleaming under floodlights, doors angled open like wings. The car is beautiful. Built for speed that looks good on camera. Tate looks the part, too, with his designer jacket, smug grin, live-stream rig mounted to his dash.
That’s one way to be remembered. Record your death, kid.
Fame-hungry.
Careless.
He flashes a grin my way. “Try to keep up, man.”
I don’t answer.
I don’t look at Iris either—but I feel her.
Off on the sidelines, arms crossed in her worn leather jacket that hugs her beautiful curves.
Black jeans ripped at the knees, combat boots scuffed from garage floors, a thin silver chain disappearing beneath her white tank.
Her blonde hair pulled back tight, revealing those eyes—icy blue, tired, and with a smudge of yesterday’s eyeliner.
She’s wearing her armor tonight.
She knows this route will punish arrogance.
Her voice slides into my helmet, even and calm, like it always does when things are about to go bad.
“You’ve made it to race six. The South Beach Guillotine.”
The word settles heavily behind my eyes.
“It looks merciful,” Iris says, “right up until the moment it isn’t.”
I watch the crowd through the windshield—phones raised, mouths open, neon flashing off glass and chrome. They think this is a party.
“Start on Ocean Drive,” she continues. “There are clubs, unknowing pedestrians. Your attention needs to be everywhere all at once.”
I tighten my grip on the wheel.
“Art Deco corridor next. Tight right angles. Mirrored storefronts skew depth and distance. Brake early or bleed.”
Her voice never wavers. That’s how I know she’s already picturing the wrecks, preparing herself for the worst.
“Cut inland through the service alleys. Watch for grease on the pavement. Dumpsters where shoulders should be. If you clip something, you won’t recover.”
I picture it anyway—the way cars pinball when there’s nowhere to go.
“Collins Avenue opens up after that. You’ll be tempted to go fast and wide.”
A pause. Deliberate.
“That’s where most drivers make stupid mistakes. The final turn drops toward the pier access road,” She continues. “Incomplete barriers. The grade is steeper than it looks. Braking zone comes late.”
She lets the silence stretch, knowing I’ll fill it with math and muscle memory.
“If you hit it too hot,” she finishes, “the road doesn’t forgive you.”
I exhale once, slowly.
This race is about restraint. Fancy performance will get you killed.
I can hear the city through the shell of the helmet—bass of the music, laughter from the crowd.
“Survive the Guillotine,” she concludes, “and you earn tomorrow.”
The line clicks off.
I exhale and stare ahead, engine humming, knowing exactly where the blade drops.
And that I intend to step out from under it.
Tate revs in response, the McLaren screaming, drawing cheers. He raises his phone and gives the crowd a wink.
The signal drops.
He launches like he’s auditioning for a highlight reel.
I launch like I plan to survive.
The streets blur. Past old hotels, shuttered clubs, glass walls reflecting our headlights back at us like ghosts. Tate weaves aggressively, cutting lines too tight, braking late so sparks scream from carbon skirts.
The crowd roars every time he drifts wide and recovers.
They think this is entertainment.
The alley cut comes fast.
I take it clean.
Tate doesn’t.
He clips a barrier, overcorrects, and laughs into his camera as if near-misses are currency. I hear him over the engine noise, voice crackling through his open window.
“Did you see that?”
The alley spits us out faster than it should onto Collins Avenue.
We’re seconds away from the last turn near the pier access.
My headlights catch a faint change in texture ahead. A rise where there shouldn’t be one. Steel glinting under bad light.
A lift ramp.
The McLaren screams as he punches it, chasing the open stretch like it owes him something. He laughs—actually laughs—his voice crackling through my helmet, his phone still live, still feeding the crowd.
Then he hits it.
The car doesn’t jump clean. It bucks—nose lifting wrong, rear losing control as the undercarriage scrapes hard metal. For half a second, the McLaren is weightless, headlights carving white arcs through the air.
He lands crooked, suspension collapsing under speed that has nowhere to go. The car skids sideways, tires screaming, momentum dragging him straight toward the drop.
I’m already braking.
Already lining up the exit.
Tate tries to correct too late. Oversteers. Clips the temporary barrier that wasn’t built to hold anything heavier than a maintenance cart.
It folds.
The McLaren disappears over the edge. The sound tearing through the night as glass shatters and steel screams. The ocean answers with a violent, final crash that swallows the engine whole.
Silence follows—thick, stunned silence.
I roll past the flare-marked finish, heart thudding in my chest, hands gripped tightly on the wheel.
Silence ripples outward. My hands won’t stop shaking.
The cheers come—uncertain, delayed, like the crowd isn’t sure if they’re allowed to celebrate this one.
Six bodies were buried in Miami’s history this week.
Six families I’ve destroyed. My throat burns with bile even as my blood sings with victory.
Some phones lower as if in respect. Others keep filming, hungry for more carnage I’ve delivered.
The crowd thins faster than usual, and for that I’m grateful.
I need them gone before they see me break.
Before they realize their champion is fracturing from the inside out.
After cutting the engine off, I step out of my car and head straight for Iris.
Then—
My stride is broken when I hear it.
Applause.
Slow. Mocking.
I turn around to face the sound.
Lucian Roe steps out of the shadows like he owns them.
Dark jacket. Easy smile. Hands clapping softly, mockery dressed as praise.
“Impressive,” Lucian says, voice carrying effortlessly over the murmurs. “Truly. Six races and you’re still breathing. That’s more than most can say.”
“Say what you want,” I tell him. “Then leave.”
Lucian chuckles—the sound rich, amused, utterly in control. “Oh, I will. But first—” He spreads his arms wide, addressing the remaining crowd and our crew like a ringmaster. “—why waste such a perfect audience?”
Curiosity kills the cat, right?
The crowd leans in. Phones rise higher. This is what they came for—not just racing, but drama. Blood sport with dialogue.
Lucian gestures broadly, commanding the space like a stage.
“We’re all here for the same reason, aren’t we? To see who truly deserves Miami. Who has the skill, the nerve, the right to control Cupid’s Run?”
Murmurs ripple through the crowd as if they are in agreement.
“The final race has always been about money and respect,” Lucian continues smoothly, pacing now, performing. “It’s tradition. Sacred, even. But tradition without stakes is just... theater.” He pauses, lets the word hang. “And we’re not here for theater, are we?”
The crowd responds—shouts of agreement, hunger for something real.
“Control deserves a symbol,” Lucian says, and his gaze slides deliberately toward Iris. “Something tangible. Something valuable.”
Heat floods my veins.
No.
“And what better symbol,” Lucian continues, savoring every word like fine wine, “than the woman who holds the most power? The architect of Cupid’s Run herself?”
The crowd goes silent. Waiting.
Lucian’s smile widens. “Winner takes Miami. Loser goes home in a bodybag.” He pauses, letting the tension build. “And Iris Cross—” His eyes lock on her, possessive and cruel. “—becomes the winner’s trophy.”
The word detonates.
The crowd explodes. The noise swells until it feels physical, pressing against me from all sides.
Lucian turns to me, voice dropping just enough to feel intimate despite the chaos.
“Say no,” he says lightly, “and they’ll decide you’re afraid. That you don’t believe you can win. That you don’t deserve her.”
There it is. The trap.
If I refuse, I lose the city. I lose credibility. And Lucian takes Iris anyway—because that’s what men like him do when they don’t get what they want through legitimate means.
If I accept, I put a target on her back that never goes away. I turn her into property in front of hundreds of witnesses. I make her a prize to be won.
I look at her.
Iris stands frozen at the barricade, eyes locked on mine. She’s furious, anger flashing in her eyes. But beneath the fury, I see something else.
Fear.
She’s terrified.
So am I.
I turn back to Lucian.
“Deal,” I say.
The crowd erupts into cheers and shouts, and the sound of a hundred phones captures the moment for posterity. This is history now.
Lucian inclines his head, satisfied.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he mocks. “See you tomorrow, lover.” He winks at Iris.
I feel the bile rise in my throat.
Swallowing it down, I close the distance between us in three strides, grab Lucian’s arm, and pull him away from the cameras—not far, just enough that the crowd can’t hear us clearly over their own noise.
“This is about me and you,” I say, voice low and deadly. “Leave her out of it.”
Lucian’s smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it widens.
“But she’s the only thing you care about, Ronan. That’s the entire point.”
“You want to race me? Fine. We race. But you don’t get to—”
“To what?” Lucian interrupts smoothly. “To raise the stakes? I don’t need the money. I want power. I want her. ” He leans closer, voice dropping to something almost intimate. “I am going to take everything away from you and watch you suffer, just like your brother.”
My jaw clenches.
He turns and walks back toward the crowd, already smiling again, already performing.
Then he’s gone—swallowed by the crowd, by the cameras, by the mythology he’s building around himself.
I stand there, fists clenched, breathing hard.
I turn and find Iris cutting through the thinning crowd toward me. Her face is a mask of controlled fury, but her hands are shaking.
She reaches me and doesn’t stop—just shoves me hard in the chest.
“You don’t get to make me a fucking prize without asking me first,” she says, voice low and venomous.
“Iris—”
“Don’t.” She shoves me again. “Don’t you dare try to justify this.”
“What the fuck was I supposed to do?” I grab her wrists, not hard, just firm enough to keep her in front of me. “Say no? Let him take the city? Let him take you anyway because that’s what he’ll do, Iris. That’s who Lucian is.”
“You should let me make the choice!” Her voice cracks. “You should have—”
“You know that’s not how this goes!”
She’s breathing hard now, eyes bright with unshed tears.
“You just decided for me. Like I’m already property. Is that all I am to you, Ronan? Like, I don’t get a say in my own fucking life.”
“That’s not—” I stop. Because she’s right. I did decide for her. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t fix this.”
“I know.”
“He’s going to kill you, Ronan.” Her voice drops to a raw, terrified tone. “You know that, right? Lucian Roe doesn’t lose. He doesn’t allow himself to lose.”
“I know.”
“Then why—” She stops, swallows hard. “Why did you say yes?”
“Because if I win…he’s going to take you anyway. His crew will kill you in his name.”
We stand there, surrounded by the remnants of the crowd, sirens getting closer, the ocean still roaring below us.
Then I hear boots on the pavement.
Otto.
He approaches slowly, face carved from stone, eyes locked on me with an intensity that makes my spine straighten.
“Iris,” he says quietly. “Give us a minute.”
“Otto—”
“Please.”
She looks between us, then steps back. “Don’t go far,” she tells me.
She walks away, just enough to give us space. Otto waits until she’s out of earshot, then turns that stone-carved gaze fully on me.
“Son, you better know what the hell you’re doing.”
“Otto, I don’t know anything anymore, except that I can’t live without Iris.”
The honesty seems to surprise him. His expression softens slightly. “You let your history with Lucian cloud your fucking judgement.”
“Yeah.”
“And now he’s here.” Otto steps closer. “In my city. Threatening my family.”
I understand immediately. Iris is more than his best friend’s daughter; she’s the daughter he never had, in every way that matters.
“I’m going to beat him,” I say.
“You sure about that?”
“No.” Another honest answer. “But I’m going to give it hell.”
Otto studies me for a long moment. Then he reaches out and grabs my jacket, pulls me close enough that I can see every line of age and experience carved into his face.
“That girl means everything to me,” he says quietly. “You understand that? Everything. I couldn’t pull her out of the wreckage left by her father’s mistakes. So, I taught her how to survive. You fucking break her, you won’t have to worry about dying at his hands.”
“I know.”
“You lose—” His grip tightens. “—and Lucian takes her. You understand what that means? What he’ll do to her?”
“Yes.”
“Then you better cross that fucking finish line and do what’s best for her. Take her and disappear. Leave Miami, leave the circuit, leave all of this behind.”
“His crew would find us.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“You’d better win,” he says quietly. “Because if you don’t…if you let him take her…I will hunt you down in whatever hell you end up in, and I will make you pay for it. You understand me?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’m glad we got that straight.” He glances toward where Iris stands, arms wrapped around herself, watching us. “Now go talk to her. She needs you.”
“Otto—”
“And Ronan?” He turns back. “For what it’s worth—I think you can beat him. I think you’re meaner than he is. Hungrier. You’ve got something to lose, and that makes you dangerous.”
“Or weak.”
Otto’s expression softens slightly.
“Just don’t let him get in your head. That’s how he wins—not on the road, but before you even start the engine.”
Then he walks away, back toward his parked El Camino, leaving me standing alone in the thinning crowd.
I turn and find Iris.
She’s already walking—not toward her car but south, toward the darker stretch of beach where the hotels give way to construction barriers and abandoned lifeguard towers.
For a heartbeat, I stand frozen, watching the sway of her hips as she moves down the shoreline. Exhaling, I follow her, knowing exactly what this will lead to.
What I don’t know is if I can outrun Lucian Roe.
But I won’t survive watching him take her.