Chapter 6
Evelyn lay tangled beneath the heavy white netting, gasping for breath. A bright red welt in the exact shape of Damon’s tattooed hand was already blooming across her fair, rosy cheek. She looked up at him, her eyes wide with a mixture of absolute terror and stunned disbelief.
"You hit me," Evelyn whispered, her voice trembling. "You actually hit me."
"You touched my daughter," Damon said.
He didn't yell. His volume remained low, sending a chill down the spine of everyone on the court. He stood tall, adjusting the lapels of his three-piece suit, his sharp jawline set in stone.
"My family will destroy you for this," Evelyn sobbed, struggling to push the heavy tennis nets off her shoulders. "When my father finds out what you did to Miles, he will burn your syndicate to the ground."
"Your father answers to me," Damon said, his words slow and measured. "Your entire family exists because I allow it. If you think a fractured jaw will start a war, you severely overestimate your own worth."
"I hate you!" Evelyn screamed, thrashing against the netting. "I hate you and I hate that pathetic little brat!"
"Keep her name out of your mouth," Damon commanded gently.
He slowly bent down, his leather shoes creaking slightly. He reached out and picked up the black ball-machine remote from the asphalt. He held it in his tattooed hand, his thumb resting lightly over the red power button.
"What are you doing?" Evelyn asked, her screaming suddenly giving way to a creeping, icy dread.
Damon didn't answer her immediately. He turned to the two bodyguards.
"Pick up the machine," Damon instructed. "Set it up."
The two men in dark suits moved without hesitation. They walked over to the unplugged ball machine, hoisted its heavy frame, and carried it back to the baseline.
"Plug it in," Damon said.
One of the guards retrieved the thick power cord and shoved it into the heavy-duty outlet near the fence. The machine hummed back to life, its internal generator roaring with a deep, menacing vibration.
"Damon... Damon, wait," Evelyn stammered, finally managing to push the nets off her lap. She tried to stand up, but her knees were shaking too badly. "What are you doing?"
"Fill the hopper," Damon told the guards.
The men grabbed the scattered ball baskets from the ground, dumping dozens of neon yellow tennis balls into the top of the machine. The hopper was filled to the brim.
Damon walked toward the padded bench. He stopped directly in front of Evelyn, looking down at her with eyes that offered no salvation.
"Get up," Damon said softly.
"No," Evelyn whimpered, shrinking back into the cushions. "Please, Damon."
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"I said. Get. Up."
Evelyn slowly rose to her feet, her elegant tennis outfit wrinkled and covered in dust.
