Beyond Their Expectations: From Street Rat To Supreme Ruler

3: The Summit Of Power

The taxi weaved through morning traffic, finally pulling up before a gleaming skyscraper that seemed to pierce the clouds. Glass and steel reflected the sun like a monument to wealth and power. At the top, bold letters spelled out: ARMANI ALLIED GROUP.

Dante stepped out, paying the fare.

The driver had been watching him through the rearview mirror for the entire ride—this young man in his plain clothes and worn shoes, heading to the most prestigious company in the city.

"You work there, kid?" the driver asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

Dante glanced back at him. "No. I'm not going there to work."

"Then what? Job interview?"

"I'm just taking a look around," Dante said casually. "The CEO there works for me, so I figured I'd see how things are running."

The driver's expression froze. Then he snorted loudly, shaking his head.

"Sure, kid. Sure."

He muttered under his breath as he drove away, "Pazzo. Completely delusional."

Dante stood before the building, gazing up at its towering height with satisfaction. Master Armani had built this empire for him—a foundation for when he returned to claim what was rightfully his. And Lorenzo Marchetti had managed it flawlessly in his absence.

Time to see it for himself.

He walked through the revolving doors into a lobby that screamed opulence—marble floors, crystal chandeliers, leather seating areas where well-dressed businesspeople conducted quiet conversations.

Every eye turned toward him.

His cheap jacket. His scuffed shoes. His complete lack of the polished veneer everyone else wore like armor.

"Excuse me, sir."

A young receptionist hurried from behind the desk, her smile professional but strained. She positioned herself between Dante and the elevators.

"Can I help you?" Her tone suggested she very much wanted to help him find the exit.

"Call Lorenzo Marchetti," Dante said simply. "Tell him I'm here."

The receptionist blinked. "I'm sorry, who?"

"Lorenzo Marchetti. Your CEO. Tell him Dante Moretti is waiting in the lobby."

The lobby went silent.

Every conversation stopped. Every head turned. A woman in a designer suit actually choked on her espresso.

The receptionist's smile became painfully forced. "Sir, Mr. Marchetti is an extremely busy man. He's the CEO of Armani Allied Group, one of the most powerful companies in Italy. Without an appointment, he doesn't see anyone—"

"He'll see me."

"Sir, please be reasonable—"

"I am being reasonable," Dante interrupted calmly. "Just make the call. Once he knows I'm here, he'll come down personally."

A businessman near the seating area laughed loudly. "Did you hear that? The street rat thinks Lorenzo Marchetti will come running!"

"Someone should call animal control," another guest muttered. "Let them drag this mangy dog back to whatever gutter he crawled out of."

A woman in pearls wrinkled her nose. "He probably doesn't even know what a shower is. Look at those clothes—does he think this is a charity shelter?"

The receptionist picked up the phone, her hand trembling slightly—whether from secondhand embarrassment or genuine concern, Dante couldn't tell.

Before she could dial, sharp footsteps echoed across the marble.

"What's going on here?"

A tall woman approached, her dark hair pulled into an immaculate bun, her tailored suit probably worth more than most people's monthly salary. Her eyes were sharp, assessing, missing nothing.

Isabella Conti. Lorenzo Marchetti's personal secretary.

The guests immediately straightened, offering polite greetings.

"Buongiorno, Ms. Conti."

"Good morning, Ms. Conti."

She acknowledged them with a curt nod before turning to the receptionist. "Explain."

The receptionist gestured helplessly at Dante. "This... gentleman claims he has business with Mr. Marchetti. He wants me to call him down to the lobby."

Isabella's gaze slid to Dante. Her lip curled with barely concealed contempt.

"Is that so?" She crossed her arms. "And you are?"

"Dante Moretti."

"Never heard of you." She turned to the receptionist. "Is Mr. Marchetti someone any stray dog can demand to see just because they wander in off the street?"

The receptionist flushed. "No, Ms. Conti, I was just trying to—"

"Today this mongrel wants an audience, tomorrow another mangy cur will come begging for scraps, and the day after? What then?" Isabella's voice grew sharper. "If you can't handle this basic aspect of your job, perhaps you'd be better suited to working in the warehouse. At least there you wouldn't embarrass this company."

The receptionist paled. "I'm sorry, Ms. Conti. It won't happen again."

Isabella turned her cold gaze back to Dante. She looked him up and down like he was something unpleasant she'd stepped in.

"Listen carefully, boy. Mr. Marchetti doesn't have time for delusional street rats who think they're important. Whatever fantasy you've constructed in that empty head of yours—that you know him, that you matter, that anyone here gives a damn about you—forget it." She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a hiss. "You're nothing. Less than nothing. You're a flea trying to speak with a lion."

The crowd murmured agreement.

"She's right—what kind of cockroach crawls into a place like this?"

"Probably mentally ill. Should be in an institution."

"Like a pig wandering into a palace and demanding to see the king!"

Dante's expression remained neutral. He met Isabella's glare without flinching.

"I'll wait," he said quietly.

Isabella's face flushed red. "You arrogant little—" She spun toward the security guards stationed by the entrance. "You two! Get over here!"

Two large men in black uniforms approached immediately.

"This... creature... is trespassing and causing a disturbance," Isabella said, gesturing at Dante like he was a particularly offensive piece of garbage. "Teach him a lesson about respecting his betters. Make sure he understands that dogs like him don't belong in places meant for humans."

The guards grinned, cracking their knuckles.

"With pleasure, Ms. Conti," one rumbled, advancing on Dante.

The crowd backed away, eager to watch the entertainment. Several pulled out their phones.

"Finally," someone laughed. "Someone's going to put that mangy mutt in his place!"

"About time. Should have called pest control the moment he walked in."

Dante stood perfectly still, watching the guards approach. His hands hung loose at his sides. His breathing was calm, measured.

He was just about to move—

"STOP!"

The voice cracked through the lobby like thunder.

Everyone froze.

Lorenzo Marchetti strode out of a private elevator, his expression dark as a storm. He was a man in his late forties, impeccably dressed, with the bearing of someone who'd commanded empires.

Every person in the lobby immediately straightened, fear and respect warring on their faces.

"Mr. Marchetti!" Isabella gasped, her confidence evaporating. "Sir, I was just handling a disturbance—"

"Silence."

The single word shut her up instantly.