Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Ezio
"Sir."
I looked up. Elsa stood in the doorway, a folder in her hands. Same face as always—respectful, distant, nothing behind it.
"What is it?"
"Miss Adrian has her checkup today," she said. "Ten a.m. appointment at Saint Luke Hospital. The car's ready."
A checkup.
I went still for a second.
How long had she been living here?
"How far along is she?" I asked.
Elsa's eyebrow twitched. Barely. But her poker face snapped right back into place.
"Six months, sir."
Six months.
Four months. She'd been here four months. In those four months, I'd gone to her room once. Just the one time. Because the elders were watching, and I had no choice.
After that?
After that, I didn't go back.
Not because I was busy—though I was. Because I didn't know how to face her. That night, lying there, the thing in her eyes—not anger, not hate. Something else. I couldn't name it. But I didn't want to see it again.
Except she had my child in her belly.
Six months.
"Sir?" Elsa waited a few seconds. "Should I tell Miss Adrian you're busy today?"
"No." I stood, grabbed my jacket. "I'll go."
I was halfway out of the study before I even realized what I'd just said.
What the hell was I going there for?
Not to see her. The kid. That was mine. A Visconti heir. Going to the checkup—that's what a father does.
Yeah. That was it.
I heard the voice before I even hit the living room.
"This is Mr. Visconti's most precious collection!
" That was Margaret—been working at the manor for nearly ten years, and right now she sounded like she was prosecuting a capital crime.
"Do you know who sent this vase? Miss Colonna from the Colonna family sent it, on Mr. Visconti's nineteenth birthday, she brought it herself! "
I stopped walking.
"I'm sorry," Olivia said quietly. "I didn't mean to. I just wanted to open the window..."
"Didn't mean to?" Margaret cut her off. "So you did mean to? You think because you're carrying Mr. Visconti's child, you can just do whatever you want around here? Who do you think you are? You're nothing but a—"
"That's enough," I said.
They both spun around.
Margaret's face went white. "S-sir."
I walked into the living room and looked down at the shattered pieces on the floor.
Blue and white porcelain. Everywhere.
From Bianca. Years ago, she'd brought it back from Florence. We'd promised to marry back then. She'd said it was an eighteenth-century piece, worthy of the Visconti name.
I stared at the fragments, waiting for something to hit me.
Nothing did.
"What happened?" I asked, my voice flat.
"It was Miss Adrian," Margaret said fast, falling over herself to explain. "She broke your vase. That was from Miss Colonna—"
"I'm asking her," I cut in, looking at Olivia. "You. Talk."
She lifted her head. Those green eyes were red-rimmed, tears tracking down her cheeks.
"I just wanted to open the window for air," she said, her voice rough. "I bumped the table and the vase just... I'm sorry. I didn't know it was so important to you. I can pay for it."
"No," I said.
She froze.
"Sir!" Margaret's voice climbed higher. "That was from Miss Colonna—"
"What's her last name?" I asked, cutting Margaret off.
Margaret stared at me. "W-what?"
"Her last name," I said. "What is it?"
"A-Adrian."
"Visconti," I said, each word falling sharp and clear. "She's Mrs. Visconti. You call her miss?"
Margaret's lips moved soundlessly.
"It's broken, so it's done," I said, sweeping my eyes over the shards. "Clean it up. Then replace every flower in this manor." I turned my head toward Olivia. "What flowers do you like?"
She hesitated, like she hadn't expected the question to land on her. "Um...jasmine."
"Jasmine," I said, turning back. "Every room. Hallways, dining room, everywhere. I don't want to see anything else for the rest of the month."
Margaret stood there, mouth opening and closing, but one look at my face shut her down. She bowed her head. "Y-yes, sir."
"The pieces," I said. "Clean them before we leave. You don't, you don't come back tomorrow."
I didn't look at her again. I turned and headed for the door. "Let's go. We're going to be late."
In the car, she sat next to me, hands folded over her rounded belly, not saying a word.
I watched the city slide past the window. Stayed quiet.
Tony was smooth with the wheel—been my driver for twelve years, didn't have a mistake in him. But I caught her gripping her dress, then letting go, then gripping it again.
"You okay?" I asked, not turning my head.
She looked over at me, a little surprised.
"Yeah," she said. "I just wanted to...thank you."
Her voice was soft, careful—different from how she usually talked. There was something almost pleading about it.
I felt something shift in my chest. Uncomfortable.
"Don't have to," I said. "I just did what a husband should do."
"No, that's not it," she said. "I mean the vase. That was from someone important to you, right? It should have meant something, and I didn't mean to—"
"Already told you. Not important."
"But—"
"Olivia."
She stopped.
"That vase," I said, eyes still on the road, "I was already thinking about getting rid of it before you broke it. Couldn't find the right reason. So thanks for solving that problem for me."
The car got quiet for a moment.
Then she said, "The way you protected me back there...it was kind of intense."
"You don't like intense?"
"I do," she said, and something shifted in her voice—something I wasn't going to analyze too carefully. "I like it a lot."
I glanced at her in my peripheral. She'd turned to face the window, but I saw the curve of her mouth.
"Next time something like that happens," I said, "don't just stand there and take it. Push back. Or walk away."
"I did push back," she said. "I said I'd pay for it."
"That's not pushing back. That's giving up. This isn't some shitty Brooklyn apartment," I said, harsher than I meant to. "This is the Visconti manor. Nobody's going to have sympathy for you because you're weak. The opposite. The weaker you are, the more they'll step on your neck. You get that?"
She stared at me like she was seeing me for the first time.
Damn it.
What was I telling her this for? She was a tool. A tool for making a kid. If people pushed her around, that wasn't my problem.
Except—
Except seeing her standing there like that, head down, biting her lip, trying so hard to keep it together—I couldn't fucking help myself.
"So what should I say?" she asked suddenly, her voice small, testing.
"Don't say anything," I said, irritable in a way I didn't expect. "You got a problem like that, you come to me, and I handle it. You don't need to—" I stopped, realizing I was saying too much. "Just don't let people walk all over you. It makes me look bad."
I threw that last part in.
She didn't answer, but her mouth curved up a little more.
I didn't know what she was thinking, and I decided not to wonder about it.
The private hospital VIP suite was spacious, luxurious—deep wood paneling, medical equipment hidden behind custom cabinetry. The exam bed was velvet-padded, warm light spilling from a standing lamp. Could've been a five-star hotel suite instead of a sterile medical space.
Dr. Green was in her fifties, gold-rimmed glasses, professional and gentle. I'd brought her in special—thirty years obstetrics, the best in the field.
"Lie down, Mrs. Visconti," she said, gesturing to the bed.
Mrs. Visconti.
The name sounded strange. Every time I heard it, I'd blank for a second before it registered—she was talking about Olivia.
My wife.
In the legal sense.
Olivia lay back and lifted her shirt. Her belly was visibly round now, pale skin with faint stretch marks. When she saw them, she instinctively tried to pull her shirt down, but Dr. Green was already applying the gel.
"Cold," the doctor said, picking up the probe. "Bear with me."
Olivia sucked in a breath. I saw her fingers curl into the bed sheet.
"Want to come look, Dad?" Dr. Green asked. "Better view from here."
I stepped over and stood next to the exam bed.
The screen lit up.
At first, it was just blurs and grays, like some abstract painting. Then it started to take shape.
I saw it.
A small outline, curled in the dark. Round head. Curved body. And—
"Look here," Dr. Green said, pointing to a tiny flashing point. "That's the heart."
The point was beating.
Fast. Steady.
I stared at that screen and felt something catch in my throat.
That was the Visconti heir.
My blood.
My kid.
"Baby's very healthy," Dr. Green said, smiling. "Heart rate's normal, size matches the gestational age. You two are doing great."
She moved the probe. The image slid across the screen.
"This is the arm, you see? And the hand—"
A tiny hand appeared on the screen.
Five fingers. Each one crystal clear.
My breathing stopped.
"Oh my God," Olivia said, her voice shaking. "Is that...is that her hand?"
"Yes," Dr. Green said. "Perfect little hand."
"So small," Olivia breathed, eyes wide. "Such small fingers."
I stared at that hand and couldn't speak.
So small. Impossibly small. But those five fingers were real, visible, you could even see the shape of the fingertips.
"And feet," Dr. Green continued, moving the probe again. "Look, baby's active."
On the screen, the tiny body moved.
Arms stretched. Legs kicked. The whole thing flipped over.
Something expanded in my chest.
Not the tight pressure I usually carried. Something else—something molten and overwhelming that nearly stopped my breath.
"It's moving," Olivia said, hand flying to her mouth, tears spilling down her face without warning. "It's moving! Ezio, did you see? Did you see?"
I saw.
I sure as hell saw.
"Yeah," I said, my voice rough.
"Want to hear the heartbeat?" Dr. Green asked, hand already moving toward the button.
I nodded.
The sound came through the speaker.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Fast. Strong. Like urgent music.
Best sound I'd ever heard.