Lydia's Point Of View
The air in the Corvanni headquarters felt like it was made of lead, thick and oppressive, settling into my lungs with each breath. Exactly one week had passed. Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours of absolute, bone-deep humiliation that had burrowed into my chest and made a home there.
Every time I closed my eyes, the scene replayed itself with cruel clarity… the gravel digging into my knees, the guns glinting in the sunlight, and that man, Charles Silvestro, looking at us like we were gum stuck to the bottom of his very expensive loafers. The memory burned.
I marched toward the elevators, my heels clicking against the marble floor with the rhythm of a firing squad. Rage coursed through me, my breath coming in short, jagged bursts that I tried desperately to disguise as "corporate poise." It wasn't working. Not even close. I felt like a teakettle about to whistle, the pressure building with each step.
A Silvestro.
