"I won't love her," I said quietly, barely loud enough for my own ears. "That's not going to happen. It can't."
Sebastian was talking about something else, maybe he didn't even hear.
I slipped my hand into my jacket pocket. A pair of green eyes flashed through my mind, then disappeared.
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 outlooking 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"?
