Rita's Point Of View
"He's Vito Silvestro's son."
The air in the room didn't just feel thin; it felt as though someone had drained it entirely, replacing every molecule with pure, freezing nitrogen. My lungs burned with each shallow breath, my chest constricting as though invisible hands were squeezing the life from me.
I stared at Seraphina, then at the man standing by the hearth… his silhouette dark against the flames, his shoulders rigid with tension, then back at my daughter, searching her face for some sign this was all a terrible mistake, a nightmare from which I would soon wake. "Vito Silvestro's son?"
The words escaped as barely more than a whisper, tasting like ash on my tongue, bitter and choking. I shook my head so violently my vision blurred at the edges, the room tilting on its axis. "No. No, it's a lie. Some kind of sick trick." My voice rose, cracking with desperation, each syllable fracturing like glass under pressure.
