Chapter 26

Matteo's POV

I stood by the window, watching the morning clouds curl like smoke across the skyline, fingers drumming on the glass, heart pacing faster than usual, though I wouldn’t admit it aloud.

Today wasn’t about reports or quarterly projections or the board breathing down my neck it was about family, about legacy, about the man who built this empire from dirt, steel, and grit.

My grandfather.

Alessandro Russo.

The man who gave me this company not with softness, but with a storm, the kind of mentorship that didn’t offer warmth just power, purpose, and the pressure of never disappointing him.

He hadn’t stepped into this building in over a year, not since the accident that left him bitter, recovering in the States, unreachable except for cold voicemails and formal emails.

But today he was back.

And for once, I wanted everything to look perfect, even if underneath the marble floors and designer silence, the cracks between people and pride were ready to split wide open.

I’d arranged a welcome reception on the twelfth floor, simple but elegant floral arrangements, classic jazz, a catered lunch from his favorite Tuscan chef flown in that morning with aggressive precision.

No one else knew the truth yet not about how much this office still belonged to him, or how little of my kingdom was truly mine until he said it was.

I’d stepped out briefly to double-check logistics when it happened the moment everything derailed, and no one even knew they were standing at the edge of a very dangerous line.

***

Meanwhile…

Elevator – Lobby

Alessandro walked into the lobby unannounced, his dark navy coat brushing his calves, silver cane clicking sharply with each step, chin lifted like a man used to being respected everywhere he walked.

He paused in front of the elevator, glanced at the time on the wall, and muttered something in Italian under his breath too low to catch, but impatient.

The elevator dinged.

Doors slid open.

And there she stood Isabelle, dressed like drama, her sunglasses still perched on her forehead despite being indoors, phone glued to her ear like the world revolved around her conversations.

She barely glanced at him.

Then frowned.

Rolled her eyes.

“Ugh,” she muttered into the phone. “Some old maintenance guy is trying to get in the elevator with me. Disgusting. Probably reeks of mothballs and moth-eaten regrets.”

Alessandro raised an eyebrow.

Said nothing.

She waved him off. “Sir, take the stairs. Seriously. This isn’t a nursing home elevator, it’s for people who belong in this building and work here not wrinkle-faced creeps with canes.”

The air went still.

Even the lobby receptionist froze.

But before Alessandro could respond, the sharp click of heels on marble cut through the room like a blade dragged across silk.

“Excuse me?”

Sarah’s voice.

Sharp.

Clear.

Unapologetically furious.

She walked up between them, her eyes blazing like she’d caught someone slapping her grandfather and maybe, in her heart, she had.

“Did you just tell this man to take the stairs?” she asked, voice low but trembling with rage, each word wrapped in disbelief and something close to betrayal.

Isabelle scoffed.

Rolled her eyes.

“Sarah, please, I don’t have time to argue with assistants who sleep their way up the ladder This is between me and whatever antique store this grandpa escaped from.”

The slap came fast.

A clean, sharp crack that echoed through the lobby like thunder across a lake stunning, silencing, and just loud enough that it carried up into the hallway cameras Matteo later reviewed in awe.

Sarah’s chest rose and fell.

Her fingers still tingled from the impact.

But she didn’t flinch, didn’t apologize, didn’t back down not even when Isabelle gasped and clutched her cheek like she’d been betrayed by the universe itself.

“You don’t speak to people like that,” Sarah said, voice steady now. “Not to janitors, not to strangers, and not to someone you don’t even have the decency to acknowledge properly.”

Alessandro stood quietly.

Eyes narrowed.

Mouth twitching not with offense, but something that looked very close to amusement.

Sarah turned to him, bowed her head slightly, and said with warmth, “I’m sorry, sir. You’re more than welcome to take the elevator. Please, allow me.”

He stepped in with her.

Said nothing at first.

Then, as the doors closed behind them, he looked at her just once and smiled.

It wasn’t big.

Wasn’t obvious.

But it was there.

And Sarah didn’t even know what she’d just done.

But I did.

Because five minutes later, when my grandfather walked into the party, he said only four words before anything else.

“Who is that girl?”

**

The room quieted when he entered not because he demanded it, but because Alessandro Russo had a presence that made people straighten their backs and question their choices without being told to.

He wasn’t a man of many words anymore, but his gaze still carried weight, and the minute his eyes swept across the room, it was like every corner snapped into focus.

He didn’t speak to me at first.

Didn’t hug me.

Didn’t say he was proud.

Just looked around, nodded once, then asked his first question in that familiar voice lined with smoke and steel.

“Who is that girl?”

My head turned before I even registered what he meant, but I didn’t need to follow his line of sight because I already knew the name that had anchored in his thoughts.

Sarah.

She stood near the catering table, laughing softly at something Ryan had said, her posture graceful, composed, but her smile had that nervous edge she wore in unfamiliar rooms.

I walked toward my grandfather.

Lowered my voice.

Asked, “What happened?”

He smirked.

Something I hadn’t seen in a long time.

And he said, “Your girl slapped someone in the lobby today. She has better aim than most bodyguards I’ve hired.”

My heart stuttered.

I didn’t ask who she slapped.

Didn’t need to.

I already had a sinking feeling, and all roads led to the same spoiled voice and unapologetic perfume that had filled this office with tension lately.

Isabelle.

I excused myself quietly, slipped into my office, pulled up the building’s internal security system, and queued the morning’s elevator lobby footage while my chest tightened with something dangerously close to pride.

The video began.

And there it was.

Every second.

Every word.

Every crack of that slap.

Every inch of Sarah’s spine straightening like a queen defending a stranger without hesitation, without flinching, without looking for applause.

My grandfather stood beside her.

Silent.

Unmoved.

But when the elevator doors closed, his faint smile was impossible to miss like he’d found something in her the world kept trying to teach me to forget.

Respect.

Grit.

Grace.

I leaned back in my chair, staring at the frozen screen, her silhouette etched against cold marble and even colder words she refused to let slide without consequence.

No one had ever done that for him.

Not in years.

Not in this building.

Not when it mattered.

And yet here she was fighting battles that weren’t hers like they were stitched into her skin.

I couldn’t breathe.

Not properly.

Not with her voice echoing in my head, calm but fierce, filled with the kind of power you can’t buy or inherit you only earn it by surviving people like me.

And maybe that was why I’d pushed her away.

Because somewhere deep down, I knew she saw me not just the suits, not the reputation, but the cracks I’d worked my whole life to hide.

I closed the footage.

Sat still.

Tried not to feel.

But the truth was now louder than pride: I had just watched the woman I’d broken stand up for the only man who ever made me want to be more.

—

The jazz band played softly in the background, a low hum of brass and strings, but I barely heard it over the sound of my grandfather’s cane clicking once on marble.

He stood near the platform reserved for my toast, but instead of calling for silence himself, he simply raised one hand and the room obeyed like the world still belonged to him completely.

Every voice fell.

Every fork dropped.

Even I froze when he cleared his throat, not with effort, but with command, the way only men who built empires from ash know how to carry silence like a sword.

“I’ve returned after four years,” he began slowly, scanning the room with his sharp, silver-lined gaze. “And I’ve seen many things today but none impressed me more than one woman’s courage.”

He turned toward the crowd.

Toward her.

Sarah.

She blinked in confusion when he extended his hand and said, “Miss Hart would you come up here for a moment, please? I believe it’s time everyone knows your name.”

She hesitated.

Glanced at me.

Her eyes wide with confusion, chest rising and falling like someone stepping into a spotlight they didn’t ask for, unaware the entire room was about to rearrange itself around her.

But she moved.

Gracefully.

Nervously.

Still unaware of the storm she’d unknowingly walked into when she defended a stranger in the elevator only hours earlier, a stranger who was anything but that now.

When she reached him, he took her hand and turned her gently toward the crowd, and then without warning, without pause spoke words that made the world tilt beneath our feet.

“I would like you all to meet the future daughter-in-law of the Russo family.”

There was no music now.

No clinking glasses.

No breath.

Only a collective intake of shock that hit the room like wind before thunder, followed by the crack of a thousand thoughts breaking at once.

Sarah gasped.

Actually gasped.

Her eyes snapped to me, disbelieving, blinking rapidly as if trying to rewind time or decipher if this was a joke, a mistake, a cruel illusion made of power.

She turned back to Alessandro.

Confused.

Speechless.

“I what?” she whispered, the words trembling out of her like a question tied to panic, hands slightly raised like she might bolt or float or simply collapse under the weight of it.

Alessandro smiled, leaned closer, and said gently, “Oh my dear, I am Alessandro Russo. The grandfather of Matteo Russo, who seems to be your boss.” And I know a daughter-in-law when I see one because strength always recognizes its mirror.”

The silence shattered with one sound.

A glass crashing.

Then liquid.

Cold.

Champagne poured over Sarah’s head like spite wrapped in bubbles, drenching her dress and dripping from her lashes before anyone could stop what happened next.

Isabelle.

Of course.

Her smile was venom.

Her eyes wild.

And her voice sharp with rage as she stepped forward, chin high, voice shaking, “That’s not happening she will never be a daughter-in-law in this family.”

Gasps echoed.

Someone dropped a fork.

I took a step forward but Alessandro raised his hand not toward me, but toward Isabelle, stopping everything with a single glance that froze even the most powerful in their designer shoes.

“I didn’t recognize you earlier,” Isabelle stammered, trying to save herself. “In the elevator I didn’t know you were Matteo’s grandfather. I thought God, I’m sorry I  thought you were just a”

“A what?” Alessandro said.

Low.

Deadly.

Dangerous.

Isabelle’s mouth moved, but no words came out.

Only shaking hands.

Only the realization that she had not only exposed her cruelty, but done so in front of the only man whose favor had ever truly mattered here.

And then, quietly too quietly Ryan turned away from the crowd and walked out of the room.

No words.

No scene.

Just a quiet retreat, like something had finally cracked inside him too.

And when I looked back at Sarah, soaked, stunned, and frozen beside my grandfather, I knew something else had cracked inside me too.

Because for once, I didn’t know what she was going to do.

But I knew this: whatever happened next, I would be the one begging to stay in her life, not the other way around.