Chapter 2
Standing completely alone near the distant service line was three-year-old Hazel Lockwood. She looked incredibly small against the vast expanse of the bright green court. Her fair, rosy cheeks were flushed with a mixture of confusion and growing anxiety. She wore a pristine white child’s tennis outfit, a soft pastel cardigan, and tiny sneakers. She held a miniature racket, but her small hands were shaking. She had thought they were coming to play, but her future stepmother’s cold stares made her tiny heart hammer against her ribs.
Evelyn gripped the remote, her thumb hovering over the activation switch. The cinematic, natural daylight offered no shadows for her cruelty to hide within. She turned the heavy barrel of the ball machine directly toward the little girl.
"Auntie Evelyn?" Hazel called out, her tiny American accent wavering. "Are we going to play now?"
"Yes, Hazel," Evelyn smiled, though her eyes were dead and vicious. "We are going to play a very fast game."
Evelyn pressed the remote. The machine let out a loud, aggressive mechanical pop. A high-velocity tennis ball fired across the court. It didn't bounce gently; it rocketed through the air, striking the hard surface just inches from Hazel’s feet and ricocheting sharply against her shin.
Hazel let out a startled gasp, dropping her tiny racket.
Evelyn pressed the button again. And again. Tennis balls began firing in rapid, relentless succession across the court.
"Stop!" Hazel cried out, her fair face twisting in terror.
She raised both of her small arms, desperately trying to shield her face and body as the heavy, felt-covered projectiles struck her soft cardigan and bounced aggressively around her sneakers. The sheer kinetic force of the machine was overwhelming for a toddler.
"Evelyn, dial it back," Miles warned, stepping away from the fence. "You're going to leave a bruise."
"Let her learn how to move!" Evelyn laughed cruelly, completely ignoring her brother's warning. The sound of her laughter was sharp and psychotic in the bright, sunny air. She kept her thumb firmly pressed on the remote. “If one ball makes her cry, give her the whole basket.”
Neither Evelyn nor Miles noticed the heavy glass doors of the adjoining VIP lounge swing open.
Damon Lockwood stepped out onto the court.
At forty-five years old, the Mafia Boss was as handsome as a movie star, deeply masculine, and terrifyingly imposing. His thick, slightly wavy hair was naturally slicked back, with a few loose strands falling over his forehead, creating a charming, romantic look that completely belied the monster beneath. His angular face, high-bridged nose, and sharply defined jawline were framed by extremely short, neatly trimmed stubble.
Damon took one step onto the green surface and stopped cold.
His cold, sharp, intimidating eyes locked onto the scene. He saw the balls striking his weeping three-year-old daughter. He saw Evelyn holding the remote. The tailored dark three-piece suit he wore seemed to absorb the bright sunlight, radiating an aura of absolute, apocalyptic death.
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"What are you doing?" Damon asked.
His voice was not a shout. He spoke incredibly slowly, utilizing perfectly controlled pauses between his words. He kept his volume terrifyingly low. Every single syllable sounded measured, cold, and profoundly dangerous, cutting through the mechanical popping of the ball machine like a razor blade.
