Iris
The bravest thing we did wasn’t winning. It was walking away while we still could.
Otto’s garage smells like motor oil and charcoal smoke.
I smell it before crossing the threshold, motor oil and rust. It smells like home.
Golden light slices through the open bay doors, laying bright stripes across the concrete floor.
Outside, smoke curls from a makeshift grill someone’s fired up.
Bass notes thump from an ancient radio, its volume knob sticky with years of mechanics’ fingerprints.
The whole crew is here. I scan the room, taking in the view of people laughing, and not one person is struggling with the stress of Cupid’s Run looming over their heads.
Family.
Ronan’s hand finds the small of my back as we walk in. The touch is light, but I feel it like an anchor. Like proof that I’m still here, still real, still alive.
Someone whistles like they’re calling a dog.
I turn to find Mika perched on a toolbox, combat boots dangling, with Kade pretending not to stare at her tattoos. She raises her beer like she’s toasting royalty.
“Ladies and gentlemen, my cousin—the only woman in Miami who can make grown men cry using nothing but a socket wrench and her resting bitch face.”
A few people laugh.
“Brought the ghost with you, too,” Kade adds, nodding at Ronan.
He doesn’t respond. Just stands beside me.
“Oh, what, Ro? Not going to bend my cousin over a hood or anything?” Mika teases.
At the same time, Otto emerges from the back office, wiping his hands on a rag that’s seen better decades. His face is weathered, lined with years of late nights and bad decisions and the weight of keeping people alive in a city that wants them dead.
When he sees me, something in his expression softens.
“Hey, kiddo.”
“Hey, Otto.”
He crosses the garage in a few strides and pulls me into a hug that smells like Old Spice and engine degreaser. I close my eyes and let myself be small for just a moment. Let myself be the girl he picked up off the floor, years ago, with nothing but my dad’s Chevelle and a mountain full of grief.
When he pulls back, he’s shaking his head, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth.
“Thank Christ I stayed home for that part,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
“The pre-race show.” He looks between Ronan and me, raising his eyebrows. “On the Chevelle. In front of God and everyone with a camera phone.”
My face goes hot. “Otto—”
“Really?” He crosses his arms, the tired-dad energy radiating off him in waves. “I painted that hood. Couldn’t you have waited ten minutes? Found literally anywhere else?”
Ronan’s mouth twitches. Almost a smile. “No.”
Otto stares at him for a long moment, then lets out a rough laugh.
“Jesus Christ. You two are going to be the death of me.” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Kade sent me a text. Said half of Miami saw more of you than they bargained for. I didn’t need that mental image, thank you very much.”
“We were making a point,” I say weakly.
“Oh, you made a point, alright.” Otto shakes his head again, but his expression is fond despite the exasperation. “The whole damn city knows exactly whose you are now. Subtle as a brick through a window, the both of you.”
“Subtlety’s overrated,” Ronan says.
“Clearly.”
He shakes his head and looks at me. Something in his weathered face softens again. “You’re really doing this,” he says quietly.
“Yeah.”
“Good.” He squeezes my shoulders once, then lets go. “Come on. Food’s ready. We’ll talk after.”
Burgers and ribs and cold beer are quickly passed around the table. Ronan stays close, his presence a steady warmth against my side. A few people ask him questions—about the Camaro, about the final race, about Lucian’s death.
He answers in single words or not at all.
Message received.
They stop asking.
The conversation turns quiet for a moment, and I decide this is my chance.
“We’re leaving,” I say.
“Figured,” Kade says, raising his beer. “You’d be stupid to stay.”
“But the circuit doesn’t die with us,” I continue. “Someone has to run it. Someone who knows what they’re doing.”
I look at Mika—she’s survived three races and had the sense to quit before the fourth. She’s smart, careful, ruthless when she needs to be.
“You want it?” I ask.
She blinks. “You’re serious.”
I nod.
She looks around the garage, at the crew, at the weight of what I’m offering. Then she nods. “Yeah. I want it.”
“It’s yours. But I want you to do something bigger with it, something meaningful to Miami.” I walk over to the desk nestled in the corner and grab my binder. The circuit bible.
Mika takes it, handling it as if it were sacred. “You got it.”
Ronan shifts beside me. “One more thing.”
The room goes still.
“Lucian’s people are going to come looking,” he says, voice low and even. “They’ll want revenge. They’ll want blood. You tell them the circuit now belongs to Mika. You protect her. And if they don’t listen—” He pauses, lets the silence stretch. “You make them listen.”
Kade grins. “We can do that.”
The tension breaks as someone turns up the music. Conversations resume. I feel Ronan’s hand on my back again, grounding me, reminding me that this is real.
Otto catches my eye from across the garage and tilts his head toward the back.
The office is small, cluttered with invoices and parts catalogs and photographs pinned to the walls—some of cars, some of people who didn’t make it. Otto closes the door behind us and leans against the desk.
He nods slowly, looking at me like he’s trying to memorize my face. “I always knew you were too smart to stay here forever.”
My throat tightens. “Otto—”
“Let me finish.” His voice is rough, but not unkind. “The last three years, I’ve taught you everything I knew. Watch you turn that car into something dangerous. Watch you turn yourself into something dangerous. You were racing a ghost.”
“You saved me,” I say, and my voice cracks. “When I had nothing—”
“You saved yourself, kiddo.” He cuts me off, but gently. “I just gave you tools.”
I can’t stop the tears now. They flow down my cheeks hot and fast, and I don’t bother wiping them away.
Otto steps forward and pulls me into another hug. This one lasts longer.
“Your old man would be proud,” he says quietly. “Not of the racing. Not of the circuit. But of you. Of the fact that you’re smart enough to walk away.”
I press my face into his shoulder and let myself cry. For my father. For the girl I was. For the woman I’m trying to become.
When I finally pull back, Otto’s eyes are wet too.
“Rosie,” he says. “You’re taking her?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. That car deserves to see something other than blood and death.” He smiles. “Be happy, Iris. That’s all I ever wanted for you.”
“I’ll try.”
“Don’t try. Do it.” He squeezes my shoulder once more. “Now get out of here before I change my mind and chain you to an engine block.”
“I love you, Otto.”
“I love you too, kiddo.”
I leave the office before I lose my nerve.
Ronan is waiting near the Chevelle, hands in his pockets, watching the crew with that unreadable expression he wears like armor.
Otto follows me out, then calls across the garage. “Ronan.”
Ronan turns.
Otto jerks his head toward the side bay.
“A word.”
He glances at me. I nod. He follows Otto into the shadows.
I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I can see Otto’s posture—arms crossed, shoulders squared, the stance of a man who’s about to deliver a threat wrapped in love.
Ronan listens intently.
After a moment, Otto’s expression softens slightly. He says something else—quieter this time. Then he claps Ronan on the shoulder, hard enough that Ronan rocks back slightly.
Ronan nods.
They shake hands.
When Ronan walks back to me, there’s something different in his face. Not softer, exactly. But settled.
“What did he say?” I ask.
“That he’ll kill me if I hurt you.”
“Good ol’ Otto.”
This morning, we threw a duffel bag in the trunk. A few changes of clothes. The essentials. Everything else—the apartment, the records, the weight of what we built—we’re leaving behind.
Ronan sold the Camaro yesterday. Gave the money to Otto to distribute among the crew. “I don’t need a car with those memories,” he said when I asked why.
The crew gathers outside as we load the last of our things. Kade hands me a beer. “For the road.”
I laugh.
Mika steps forward, the binder I gave her tucked under her arm. “I won’t let you down.”
“I know.”
One by one, they say goodbye.
Otto is the last.
He doesn’t say anything. Just pulls me into one final embrace, kisses the top of my head, and lets me go.
“Take care of her,” he says to Ronan.
Ronan’s mouth curves slightly. “I will.”
Otto steps back and slowly raises his arm to wave us off.
I slide into the driver’s seat. Ronan takes the passenger side. The engine roars to life—she sings a loud and familiar tune.
I pull out of the garage slowly, watching the crew in the rearview mirror until they’re just small shapes that disappear.
The causeway stretches ahead.
Ocean on both sides. Miami is shrinking behind us. The sun is setting, painting the sky in shades of orange, pink, and gold.
“Where are we going?” Ronan asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Good.”
We drive in silence for a while. The city falls away. The road opens up.
And for the first time in years, I feel like I can breathe.