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(A/N: Don't forget to give those power stones to Skyrim everyone!)
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There were dozens of smaller reports remaining in the folder regarding tag team developments, merchandise distribution, and international television syndication deals, but these three core pillars were the absolute foundation of Sandro's master plan. TNA was functioning perfectly as the elite, highly profitable, and completely stable number two promotion in the country, gatekeeping its position with absolute security while never posing a true threat to the McMahon empire.
Sandro looked around the table at the veteran wrestling minds who were all staring at him with deep, unyielding respect. Even though he was a young man who had only been in the industry for a few short years, he had successfully engineered a multi layered, global chess game that controlled the balance of power in the entire business.
"You've all done an absolutely phenomenal job," Sandro declared smoothly, standing up from the table and sliding his dark sunglasses back over his eyes. "The structure is secure, the numbers are growing, and the creative trajectory is exactly where it needs to be. Keep pushing the talent, keep protecting the work rate, and maintain this absolute standard of excellence."
Sandro walked toward the boardroom doors, pausing for a brief second to look back at Dixie and Jeff.
"I'm going to return to my personal time for a little while longer," Sandro smiled, a confident, arrogant spark briefly flashing in his eyes. "But keep your eyes on WWE television over the coming weeks. The pieces are moving on my end, and when the God King finally decides to return to his throne, the entire industry is going to shake."
With that final, definitive declaration, Sandro turned and walked out of the corporate headquarters, stepping back into his luxury transport to return to his private paradise, leaving the brain trust of TNA completely inspired, highly motivated, and entirely prepared to conquer the future of sports entertainment.
Following his highly productive executive detour in Nashville, Sandro flew back to his primary residence in Tampa to reunite with his three girlfriends. The time away from the television cameras had given his bruised ribs the necessary time to heal, but more importantly, it had given him the mental space to reflect on his personal life.
For the past year, the grueling WWE travel schedule and the heavy burden of carrying the company on his back had consumed every waking moment of his existence. He had built a massive fortune and a legendary wrestling legacy, but in the process, he had neglected a crucial, fundamental step in his personal relationships.
He had never formally met their parents.
It was an omission that weighed heavily on him, compounded by the highly publicized, deeply unconventional nature of their relationship. Sandro had brought April, Nicole, and Lexi into a polygamous dynamic.
While it was legally sound and built on a foundation of genuine, mutual love, Sandro was not naive. He knew exactly how the rest of the world viewed them. Society, by and large, still clung to traditional monogamous expectations.
Outside of very specific cultures, a billionaire living with three women was frowned upon, regularly dismissed by the tabloid media as the indulgent fantasy of a rich, arrogant playboy.
He knew their families were reading those magazines. He knew their parents were hearing the whispers. And he knew that simply throwing his wealth around would only make the situation far worse, cheapening the real bond he shared with their daughters. It was time to face the music, man to man, without the protective armor of the God King persona.
He sat the three of them down in the Tampa penthouse and laid out his plan. He was going to visit each of their families. Separately. Individually. He wanted to give each set of parents the respect and undivided attention they deserved.
The first stop on his personal apology tour was Union City, New Jersey, alongside AJ.
Sandro left the designer suits and flashy watches back in Florida. He dressed in a simple, well fitted button down shirt and dark jeans as they pulled up to the modest, working class neighborhood where April Mendez had grown up. Walking up to the front door, Sandro could feel AJ's hand trembling slightly in his own.
Robert and Janet Mendez opened the door. The reception was polite, but undeniably cold. They offered him a seat in their small living room and poured him a cup of coffee, but the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.
They had watched their daughter struggle and fight for everything she had in the wrestling business, only to end up sharing her life with a man who played a sociopathic villain on television and seemingly lived the same lifestyle behind closed doors.
Sandro didn't wait for them to ask the hard questions. He took the initiative. He sat forward on their couch, looking Robert directly in the eye, and stripped away every ounce of his corporate bravado.
He apologized. He took full responsibility for the delay in introducing himself and for the media circus that surrounded their daughter's personal life. He didn't offer to pay their mortgage or buy them a new car, he knew that would instantly insult their pride.
Instead, he spoke quietly and earnestly about April. He talked about her resilience, her brilliant mind, and how she challenged him to be a better man every single day. He acknowledged that their relationship was unconventional, but he swore on his life that his devotion to her was pure.
By the end of the two hour visit, the ice hadn't completely melted, but the heavy frost had thawed. Robert shook his hand firmly at the door, and Janet offered a small, hesitant smile. It was a start.
The next trip took him across the country to the sunny, sprawling suburbs of San Diego, California, alongside Nikki.
Meeting Kathy Colace was an entirely different challenge. Kathy was a fiercely protective mother and a sharp, intuitive businesswoman in her own right.
She had raised the Bella Twins to be independent and strong, and she was highly skeptical of the young billionaire who had seemingly swept her daughter up into a complicated, four way romance.
Dinner was held at a high end seafood restaurant overlooking the marina. Kathy sat across the table, her eyes constantly evaluating Sandro's every move. She grilled him on his intentions, questioning the longevity of a relationship built under the glaring spotlight of reality television and sports entertainment.
Sandro met her gaze with unwavering respect. He spoke her language. He didn't talk about romance in flowery terms; he talked about partnership. He highlighted Nicole's incredible business acumen, her drive, and how she was a fundamental pillar of his support system.
He admitted that their life was complicated, but he made it clear that Nicole was never a secondary thought in his mind. He viewed her as an equal. Kathy listened intently, sipping her wine. She didn't give him her immediate blessing, she was far too protective for that, but she acknowledged his maturity.
"You aren't the arrogant person I see on Monday nights, which of course all of that was just a kayfabe character but sometimes it could be a picture to what the real person is." Kathy noted as the check arrived, which Sandro quietly and respectfully handled. "Take care of my girl, Sandro. Or you'll have me to deal with."
The final, and perhaps most difficult, leg of the tour took him to Columbus, Ohio, with Alexa.
Bob and Angela Kaufman were a tight knit, traditional Midwestern couple. Alexis was their only child, their absolute pride and joy, and the apple of her father's eye. Of all the families, the Kaufmans were the most visibly uncomfortable with the polygamous nature of the relationship. To them, the arrangement went against the traditional values they had instilled in their daughter.
When Sandro and Lexi arrived at their suburban home, the greeting was incredibly stiff. Bob Kaufman shook Sandro's hand with a firm, testing grip, his eyes filled with silent judgment.
They sat down at the dining room table for a home cooked meal. The clinking of silverware echoed in the quiet room. Sandro didn't try to charm his way out of the awkwardness. He ate the food, complimented Angela's cooking, and waited patiently for the inevitable interrogation.
Bob finally set his fork down. "I don't understand this, Sandro. I'll be honest with you. I watch you on TV, I read the magazines, and I look at my daughter, and I just don't understand what kind of life this is supposed to be for her."
Sandro placed his hands on the table, folding them together. He looked at Bob, then at Angela, his expression filled with quiet humility.
"I don't expect you to understand it right away, sir. And I certainly don't expect you to approve of it today," Sandro said softly, his voice devoid of any ego. "I know this isn't the life you pictured for Lexi. But I want you to know that she is safe, she is respected, and she is deeply loved. Lexi grounds me. When the volume of my life gets too loud, she is the peace that keeps me sane."
He looked over at Alexa, who was watching him with tears welling in her eyes.
"I'm not here to ask for your blessing today," Sandro concluded, looking back at her parents. "I just came here to ask for the opportunity to prove to you, over time, that I am a man worthy of being in your daughter's life."
Bob stared at the young billionaire for a long, heavy moment. The protective father was looking for a crack, a sign of deceit, but he found nothing but genuine sincerity.
Bob let out a long sigh, picking his fork back up. "We love our daughter, Sandro. We just want her to be happy."
"So do I, sir," Sandro replied softly.
The rest of the evening was lighter, the heavy burden of the unknown finally lifted from the room. Sandro knew he hadn't magically fixed everything with a single visit. Building trust with these families would take years of consistent, respectful effort. But as they flew back to Florida, with Alexa sleeping peacefully on his shoulder, Sandro felt a profound sense of accomplishment. He had faced the music, and he had laid the groundwork for a real future.
While Sandro was navigating the delicate complexities of his personal life, the relentless, unforgiving machinery of WWE television pushed forward toward the Over The Limit Pay Per View.
The first Monday Night RAW following the dramatic conclusion of the number one contender's tournament took place in front of a rabid, sold out crowd. The fans were hungry for violence, and the WWE programming delivered in spades.
The biggest highlight of the broadcast occurred at the top of the third hour. The arena returned from a commercial break to a highly unusual, visually striking setup in the middle of the ring. A heavy mahogany table was placed in the center of the canvas, flanked by two leather office chairs. But it was the perimeter of the ring that caught the audience's attention.
More than thirty massive, black clad private security guards were standing shoulder to shoulder, forming a thick, impenetrable human wall that divided the ring perfectly in half.
Standing safely on one side of the security barricade, holding a microphone with a smug, self satisfied grin on his face, was Paul Heyman.
"Ladies and gentlemen, my name is Paul Heyman," the Advocate began, his voice echoing through the arena. "And I am here tonight to serve as the chief negotiator for the most highly anticipated, dangerous rematch in the history of this industry."
The crowd buzzed, knowing exactly who he was talking about.
"Last week, a mercenary named Bobby Lashley had the audacity to lay his hands on my client," Heyman sneered. "He demanded a fight. Well, Mr. Lashley, be careful what you wish for. WWE management has officially reviewed the footage from last week's chaotic brawl, and they have come to a swift, definitive conclusion. Because of the sheer level of animosity, the Board of Directors refuses to sanction a traditional wrestling match between these two behemoths."
The fans popped, loving the real world danger implied by the announcement.
"Therefore," Heyman continued, tapping a thick legal folder resting on the table. "At Over The Limit, we will witness Chapter Two. Brock Lesnar versus Bobby Lashley in an Unsanctioned Match! There are no count outs. There are no disqualifications. The match will not stop until there is a pinfall, a submission, or until one man is physically or medically unable to continue!"
The crowd went absolutely nuts at the stipulation. A fight to the finish.
"However," Heyman held up a finger, his smile widening. "Because this match is unsanctioned, WWE management, their legal team, and the television network have demanded that both men sign ironclad waivers tonight. These waivers stipulate that neither WWE, nor the competitors themselves, can be sued for the grievous bodily harm, permanent disfigurement, or career ending injuries that will inevitably occur this Saturday."
Heyman gestured toward the entrance stage. "And so, we are out here to finalize the paperwork. A mere formality for a conqueror like my client."
The apocalyptic guitar riff of Brock Lesnar's theme hit the speakers. The Beast Incarnate walked down the ramp, wearing a black tracksuit. He looked relaxed, almost easygoing, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet.
He slid into the ring, taking his seat behind the security wall, listening intently to the whispered advice of his Advocate. Lesnar grabbed a pen, scrawled his signature across the document, and tossed the folder to the center of the table.
Moments later, the heavy brass horns of Bobby Lashley's music hit.
The Dominator did not look relaxed. Lashley stormed down the ramp like a man possessed, his eyes locked dead onto Lesnar. The thirty security guards immediately tensed up, bracing their boots against the canvas as Lashley slid into the ring.
Lashley didn't bother sitting down. He snatched the folder from the table, glared at the contract, and aggressively signed his name, nearly ripping the paper with the pen. He threw the clipboard back at Heyman, his chest heaving as he stared through the wall of guards.
"I don't need to wait until Saturday, Brock," Lashley barked, stepping forward, causing the security guards to actively push him back. "We can do this right here. Right now."
Lesnar laughed. It was a cold, chilling sound. He stood up from his chair, cracking his knuckles. He took a half step forward, and the security wall actively buckled under the sheer presence of the two monsters preparing to collide.
But Heyman quickly stepped in, tapping his watch and whispering frantically into Lesnar's ear. Save it for the Pay Per View. Let them pay to see the execution.
Lesnar smirked. He nodded at Lashley, a terrifying promise of future violence, before turning his back and calmly exiting the ring. Lashley was left standing in the center of the squared circle, visibly vibrating with fury, straining against the security guards as he watched the Beast walk away. The fuse was officially lit, and the explosion at Over The Limit was guaranteed to be devastating.
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Name: Alessandro Zhang
Age: 21 (2011)
Birthplace: Orlando, Florida, USA
Brand: WWE - RAW
Wrestling Style: Mixed Of All Styles
Faction: The Undisputed System
Championships History: 1x FCW Tag Team Champions, 1x FCW Florida Heavyweight Champion, 1x TNA World Heavyweight Champion, 1x TNA X Division Champion, 1x WWE United States Champion, 1x WWE Champion, & 1x World Heavyweight Champion
Other Achievements: 1x Andre the Giant Memorial Battle Royale Winner, 1x Mr. Money In The Bank, Youngest WWE Champion, PWI Top 500 (No.1) - 2010, & 1x KOTR (2010)
Wrestlemania Record: 2 - 0 Main Event: 1 - 0