The Vitale Brothers Ruined Me, Then Made Me Their Queen
The cry shatters the silence like a hammer striking glass.
It isn't a whimper. It isn't a tentative cough or a sputtering gasp for air. It is a roar.
High, clear, and vibrating with indignation, the sound rips through the sterile air of the medical suite, bouncing off the monitors and the walls, announcing to the world that a new Vitale has arrived and is already demanding tribute.
The sound is electric. It cuts through the thick, grey haze of my exhaustion, sharpening the blurry edges of the room into high-definition focus. My heart, which has been hammering a frantic, terrified rhythm against my ribs for hours, suddenly stutters and resets.