Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Ezio
The delivery room door was shut. Through it came her voice—not screaming, but that kind of choked-off, guttural cry wrung from deep in the throat.
I stood in the hallway, spine rigid.
Behind me, three family elders. Two lawyers in dark suits, clutching folders like they were here to close a deal. They should've been waiting in the conference room, but now everyone was posted outside, waiting for the kid to drop.
My fists clenched, then unclenched. Clenched again.
Another cry from inside—sharper this time, like something tearing apart. My stomach seized. Sweat pooled in my palms.
"Ezio."
Hart stepped forward, something like amusement in his voice.
"Relax. Women give birth to babies. It's what they do. Pacing around won't change anything. The doctors have it handled."
I didn't respond.
He moved closer, standing beside me, both of us staring at that door.
"My wife pushed for sixteen hours with the first one. Came out looking half-dead, but the next day? There she was, grinning at the kid. They're resilient. One foot in the grave, one foot out—not your problem. Just wait."
My hand formed a fist.
"For what?"
"Your heir." He glanced over, those old eyes carrying that familiar, patronizing glint. "That's what matters here. The adults—the doctors handle that. But the kid has to be perfect. When the doctor comes out, first thing we check—"
"Shut your mouth."
My voice was low, but he froze.
"Ezio, I'm just trying to—"
"One more word," I said quietly, eyes locked on him, "and I throw you out of this fucking building."
Hart blinked. Then he laughed.
"Alright, alright." He raised both hands, playing surrender. "Keep your stress. I'm done."
He turned back, muttering something to another elder in low tones. I didn't listen. Didn't want to.
I stared at the door.
Another cry from inside.
My palms were soaked.
I kept pacing, shoes clicking sharp against marble. My head was in chaos—was she in trouble? Why wasn't the doctor coming out? How the hell could that old bastard smile when he said "one foot in the grave"?
A sound from the delivery room. Ragged. Desperate. Then—sudden silence.
I stopped dead.
The door opened.
The doctor walked out holding something small, wrapped in white blankets.
My heart stopped.
"Congratulations, Mr. Visconti." The doctor's smile was exhausted but genuine. "It's a girl. Perfectly healthy."
I looked down.
So small.
So light.
Eyes shut. Skin blotchy red. Wrinkled like a newborn kitten. Her hair was gold—pale, pale gold. Like her mother's.
I stepped forward.
Reached out.
Then Hart blocked me.
"Let me see," he said, taking the infant from the doctor's hands.
I froze.
"Hart!"
"Good." He glanced down, then turned to the lawyers. "Record it. Thirteenth-generation heir of the Visconti line. Juliet Visconti. Born this afternoon, 3:47 PM."
He handed the baby to a nurse.
"To the nursery. Arrange the wet nurse and caregivers. Follow family protocol."
My brain couldn't keep up.
"Wait," I said.
Hart looked at me.
"What?"
"That." I pointed at the nurse carrying my daughter away. "That's my kid."
"Of course," Hart said. "So we'll take good care of her."
"I mean, give her to me."
"Ezio." His tone shifted cold. "You know the rules."
"What rules?"
"Family children are raised by the family," he said, like explaining something obvious. "It's tradition. Your father grew up this way. So did you. Now it's your daughter's turn."
My fists clenched.
"I'm her fucking father."
"You're the family head," he cut me off, voice dropping ice-cold. "You have more important work. Childcare? That's for the nannies and tutors. Your job is to keep this family strong. Understand?"
I stared at him. At that cold, matter-of-fact face.
"She'll be fine," he continued. "You can visit her weekly. When she's older, we'll hire teachers. She'll become a perfect Visconti."
"I don't agree."
"You don't have a choice." Hart turned to leave. "The elders decided. This isn't a one-man call."
I stood there.
Watching them walk out.
Watching the nurse carry my daughter down the hallway and disappear.
I did nothing.
Just stood there.
Like a worthless piece of shit.
"Mr. Visconti?"
The doctor's voice pulled me back.
"Your wife's awake," she said. "She's asking for the baby."
My chest tightened again.
"Is she—how is she?"
"Very weak. Lost more blood than ideal, but no life-threatening damage," the doctor said. "Her emotional state's unstable, though. Keeps asking where the baby is. We couldn't answer, so—"
"I'll handle it," I said, cutting her off. "I'm going in."
The doctor nodded, stepping aside.
I stood at the door.
Hand on the handle.
Waited a long time.
I didn't know how to face her.
Didn't know what to say.
But I had to go in.
I pushed the door open.
The room smelled faintly of blood. Curtains half-drawn, sunlight cutting through the gaps, landing on the bed's foot. She was propped against the headboard, face white as paper, gold hair dark with sweat, plastered in wet strips against her forehead and cheeks. Her eyes—
They lit up when she saw me.
"Ezio." Her voice was hoarse, but it carried a kind of expectation I couldn't read. "Where's the baby? Let me see the baby."
I didn't move.
She hesitated, then smiled, weak but genuine. "Are you exhausted? Did the nurse take her to rest? That's okay, I can wait a bit, I just want to look—"
"Olivia."
My voice came out dry. She caught it. The smile froze on her face.
"Where's the baby?"
"She's fine," was all I could say. "She's healthy. Beautiful. Blonde hair like you."
"Where is she?"
I didn't answer.
Her eyes went red. Not the slow build of tears—sudden, violent, like something detonating behind her eyes.
"Ezio," her voice started shaking. "Where is my child?"
"She was... taken by family," I forced out, throat constricted. "Tradition says the heir needs a specialized team for care."
She went still.
The silence that followed was worse than every scream from the delivery room.
Then she moved.
She pushed herself up from the bed, the IV line yanked, the needle skewed, blood seeping from the back of her hand. She didn't care. Just stared at me, hard. "What did you say?"
"Calm down."
"What did you fucking say?!" Her voice cracked sharp, weak but each word a spike in my ear. "My baby was taken? You let them take my baby?!"
"It's family tradition."
"Fuck your tradition!" Her face was breaking apart. "That's my child! Nine months I carried her! What right do you have to take her from me?!"
She got out of bed, legs buckling, gripping the mattress edge to stay upright. The IV tore free completely, blood running down her hand, dripping onto the floor.
"Where is she? I want to see her!"
"Olivia!"
"I want my daughter!" She lunged forward, grabbing my shirt, those green eyes drowning but not a single tear falling yet. "Ezio, please, let me see her. Just once. I won't hold her—I'll just look, okay? I'm begging you—"
Her voice shattered like dropped glass.
I looked down at her hands. So thin. So pale. The needle still crooked in the back of her hand, blood mixing with saline, dripping onto my cuff.
I had no words.
I couldn't say yes. I knew I couldn't. The family wouldn't allow it. The elders wouldn't. Those "professional caregiving teams" already waiting at the manor wouldn't. If I said yes and brought her, they'd block her from the door in ways far crueler.
All I could say was: "The child will be safe and healthy. You have visitation rights."
She went rigid.
That light in her eyes—it died. Slowly. One flicker at a time.
She released my shirt and stepped back. Back again. Until her spine hit the wall. She leaned against it, watching me like I was a stranger.
"Visitation rights," she repeated softly. "Visitation rights."
"Olivia."
"Get out."
The words hit like a bullet through my chest.
"You're telling me to get out," I repeated.
"Get out."
I stood there, watching her tears finally fall. One. Two. Three. She didn't wipe them. Just watched me with those dead green eyes.
"I'll arrange it," I said, my voice like it belonged to someone else. "The visits. I'll arrange them."
She said nothing.
I waited a few seconds.
Then I turned and walked out.
The door closed behind me.
I leaned against the wall, eyes shut.
Her screams still echoed in my ears.
My fists clenched.
Fuck.
A week passed without us seeing each other.
When she was discharged, I didn't go pick her up.
Elsa arranged the car. A black sedan took her back to the manor.
I stood at the study window, watching it pull through the gates. She sat in the back seat, expression unreadable. Just a small shadow hunched in the seat, then gone from view.
I turned around, back to the paperwork.
Then Elsa's voice from the doorway: "Sir, Miss Colonna's here."
Bianca.
The name turned over in my head, bringing up something that wasn't disgust—something else. Guilt. A ghost of regret.
I remembered eighteen-year-old Bianca turning back to smile at me in the garden. Her in white dresses, high heels clicking beside me. The year Father died, her hand in mine, silent, just there.
She should have been my wife.
If that night hadn't happened. If Olivia hadn't appeared—
I looked up. "Who called her?"
A pause. "Miss Colonna came on her own. She said... she has a way to fix the child situation."
I frowned.
"Send her in."
Bianca walked in wearing a beige suit, heels clicking sharp. She looked perfect as always—hair pinned up, neck and collarbone exposed, that familiar gentle smile playing at her lips.
"Ezio." She stepped forward, voice soft, concern measured just right. "I heard. Are you okay?"
"Why are you here?"
She sighed, touching my arm lightly. "I know you're upset. What happened... it wasn't your fault. You don't have to carry this alone. I'm here."
Her fingers were cool. Even through the shirt sleeve, that chill reached my skin.
"Elder's orders?"