Page 47 of Punishing His Runaway Bride

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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.

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