Chapter 8
The sheer, psychological terror of Damon’s command paralyzed Evelyn entirely. The bright video colors of the tennis court felt like a surreal, inescapable nightmare. The cinematic lighting offered no shadows for her to hide within. She remained tangled in the spare netting, staring at the silent barrel of the ball machine, her chest heaving with rapid, shallow breaths.
"No," Evelyn gasped, her voice cracking. "Damon, you can't be serious. You can't do this to me. I am a Price! If you harm me, my father will authorize a hit on your entire command structure!"
Damon slowly stood up to his full height. He looked down at her, his expression a mask of unyielding, cold granite.
"Your father," Damon murmured, his words echoing softly across the silent court, "is a businessman. When he sees the video of his children attempting to torture the heir to my syndicate... he will not declare war. He will disown you... to save his own life."
Evelyn swallowed hard, the terrifying logic of his statement entirely dismantling her final thread of hope. She knew he was right. In their world, a blatant, unprovoked attack on a Boss's bloodline was a sin that carried an automatic death sentence. Her family would not bleed for her mistake.
Damon didn't issue the command twice. He simply looked at his bodyguards.
The two White American men in professional suits stepped away from the gate, leaving Cora and Hazel secured by the exit. They walked briskly across the court, their faces utterly devoid of emotion. They reached the padded bench and grabbed Evelyn roughly by the arms.
"Get your hands off me!" Evelyn shrieked, kicking her athletic shoes wildly as the massive men hauled her effortlessly to her feet. The spare netting fell away from her shoulders. "Damon, call them off! I beg you! Please!"
"Put her on the service line," Damon ordered, his voice flat and absolute.
The bodyguards dragged the screaming, thrashing woman across the bright green surface of the court. She fought frantically, but she was completely powerless against their strength. They forced her to stand exactly where three-year-old Hazel had been standing just minutes prior.
"Do not move," one of the guards warned her coldly, stepping back to ensure she was directly in the crosshairs of the machine.
Damon walked over to the ball machine. He didn't pick up the remote. He reached down to the manual control panel on the side of the heavy industrial unit. His artistic, tattooed fingers moved over the dials. He adjusted the velocity knob, turning it past the standard practice settings, pushing the machine's power to its absolute, maximum limit.
Miles, bleeding and groaning near the ruined racket rack, weakly raised his head. "Damon... don't..." he wheezed, before spitting a mouthful of blood onto the court.
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"Keep your mouth shut, Miles," Damon whispered, turning the heavy barrel of the machine until it was aimed perfectly at Evelyn’s chest. "Or I will put you on the line with her."
Evelyn stood trembling on the service line, tears ruining her makeup, her fair, rosy skin flushed with sheer, unadulterated terror. The charming, handsome man she had planned to marry had entirely vanished, replaced by an executioner ready to extract a pound of flesh.
