Chapter 3
The low, lethal vibration of Damon’s voice immediately paralyzed the adults on the court. Miles froze, his fair skin paling instantly. Evelyn’s cruel laughter died in her throat, but her finger, locked in a state of sudden panic, remained pressed against the remote trigger for a fraction of a second too long. Another tennis ball fired, striking Hazel’s small shoulder.
Damon did not wait for an answer.
He crossed the bright green tennis court with long, explosive, predatory strides. His polished leather shoes slapped against the hard surface. He moved with a deeply masculine power, bypassing Evelyn entirely. He marched directly to the humming ball machine and violently slammed his hand down onto the emergency stop switch.
The machine powered down with a dying mechanical whine.
The sudden silence on the court was deafening. Dozens of loose yellow tennis balls continued to roll slowly past Damon’s polished shoes. He didn't look at the adults behind him. He immediately dropped to one knee, entirely disregarding his custom-tailored trousers, and reached out for his weeping daughter.
"I've got you," Damon murmured. His voice was a stark contrast to his lethal demeanor; it was thick with a warm, fiercely protective paternal love.
He lifted Hazel safely into his massive arms, turning her away from the barrel of the machine. The little girl buried her face deep into his neck, her small hands clutching the lapels of his dark three-piece suit with white-knuckled desperation. Her fair, rosy cheeks were wet with tears, and her tiny frame trembled violently against his chest.
"Daddy," Hazel cried, her voice breaking into a breathless, terrified whimper. “She kept aiming at me.”
Damon closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. The artistic tattoos on his hands and fingers—refined, sharp designs with elegant negative space—flexed as he gently stroked the back of her head.
"I know, baby," Damon whispered softly. "I know."
He slowly stood up to his full, imposing height, keeping his daughter securely shielded.
A few yards away, near the heavy metal gate of the court, stood Cora Reed. The twenty-seven-year-old tennis-club attendant was dressed in a standard staff polo, crisp trousers, and clean sneakers. Her fair, rosy skin was completely drained of color. She was trembling violently, her eyes darting between the terrifying Mafia Boss and the aristocratic woman holding the remote. In her shaking hand, Cora tightly gripped a smartphone.
"Damon, darling," Evelyn stammered, frantically trying to reconstruct her shattered facade. Her American accent trembled as she stepped forward, her athletic shoes squeaking on the court. "It was just a misunderstanding. The machine malfunctioned. I couldn't get it to stop firing!"
"A malfunction," Damon repeated.
He didn't turn around to look at her yet. He spoke with that same, terrifyingly slow cadence. The controlled pauses made the air feel incredibly thin.
"That is exactly what happened, Damon," Miles agreed quickly, stepping up beside his sister, his tailored jacket shifting as he puffed out his chest to project false confidence. "It was a mechanical error. Evelyn was trying to turn it off."
"Excuse me," a small, shaking voice interrupted.
May you like
Damon turned his head slightly. Cora stood near the gate, tears of absolute terror in her eyes, holding her smartphone up with both hands.
"I... I have a video, sir," Cora whispered, her voice cracking. "I recorded it."
