MATTEO POV'S
The email from Valentina hit my inbox at 6:03 a.m. New York time.
Subject: Buy-Back Offer : Terms & Deadline
No greeting.
No pleasantries.
Just three bullet points and a forty-eight-hour clock.
I read it twice, then three times, feeling each word sink deeper until it sat like lead in my stomach.
She wanted every share back.
Full valuation.
No premium.
No negotiation.
And if I refused?
She would go public with the funding trail herself turn the story into a media firestorm before the palace could spin it.
Smart.
Ruthless.
Completely her.
I leaned back against the headboard, the hotel room still dark except for the blue glow of the screen.
Outside, Manhattan was beginning to stir, but in here the silence felt thick, oppressive.
I should have been angry.
I should have felt betrayed.
Instead I felt something dangerously close to pride.
She hadn’t changed.
Not really.
The woman who once told me she’d rather burn her designs than accept charity was now threatening to burn her entire empire just to keep me out.
I opened a new window.
Pulled up the encrypted folder I kept buried on the family server.
The file name was simple: Succession – Contingency 2025.
Inside were the documents my uncle Carlo had slipped me last month when the parliament vote passed.
New law.
Male primogeniture restored.
No named heir from Alessandro.
The crown would pass to the next legitimate male descendant.
And Luca my son was legitimate.
The clinic records from Positano had surfaced.
My name on the paternity acknowledgment I’d signed in secret before I left.
Her name.
His.
The council had voted 11–2 to demand verification.
My mother voted against.
She lost.
I scrolled further.
Private correspondence between Elena and the Prime Minister.
She’d tried to bury the records.
Offered favours.
Threatened favours withdrawn.
Then the last email, dated two weeks ago.
From Elena to Carlo.
If the child is confirmed, the succession crisis ends.
But the American mother cannot be allowed to raise him.
We will petition for custody on grounds of moral unfitness.
Prepare the dossier.
Make it airtight.
I stared at the words until they blurred.
Moral unfitness.
The woman who’d built a fifty-million-dollar brand from nothing while raising our son alone.
The woman who’d refused every handout, every shortcut, every man who offered an easier path.
My mother wanted to take Luca from her.
I closed the laptop.
Hard.
The sound echoed in the empty room.
I stood up, walked to the window, pressed my forehead against the cool glass.
The city lights blurred into streaks of gold and red.
Five years ago I’d chosen silence to protect Valentina.
I’d believed my mother when she said the crown would destroy her.
I’d believed the crown was more important than the woman I loved.
I’d been wrong.
The crown wasn’t a legacy.
It was a curse.
And I was done letting it touch them.
I picked up my phone again.
This time I dialled Carlo.
He answered on the second ring.
“Matteo. It’s early even for you.”
“I’m flying to New York tonight,” I said. “I need you to stall the petition. Buy me time.”
A long pause.
“You know what you’re asking.”
“I know.”
“Your mother will see this as treason.”
“Let her.”
Another pause.
Then his voice, quieter.
“The boy… he looks like you.”
I swallowed.
“I know.”
“Be careful, nephew.
The throne doesn’t forgive easily.”
“I’m not asking forgiveness,” I said.
“I’m asking for a chance to be a father.”
I ended the call.
Then I opened my email again.
Replied to Valentina.
One line.
I accept your terms.
But I’m coming to New York.
We talk face to face.
No lawyers.
No board.
Just us.
I hit send.
The message disappeared into the void.
I looked out at the city one last time.
The sun was rising now, turning the glass towers into flames.
I’d spent five years running from the crown.
Now I was running toward the only thing that mattered.
And if the palace wanted to burn me for it,
let them try.
I was already on fire.
