"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."
