Damon Salvatore Pictures Novels & Stories

“I would pay you three million pounds for it, and also assist in recovering your father's company.” “I can't agree to this. I've always wanted to build my career and marriage is not part of my plan, not even a contract marriage…”. Sophia said Damien cut in, “I'm not asking you to agree” I frowned, “what?” “I'm asking you to think about it”. Damien paused before he continued, “you don't have to answer today”. He opened a small drawer in his desk and brought out a small business card. “My direct number”, he said, placing the card on his desk. “Whatever your answer is, call me”.

**Lennon (11:05 AM):** working out? **Damian (11:06 AM):** Yeah! **Lennon (11:06 AM):** can i see? A few seconds stretched. Lennon stared at the screen like it might bite him. Then the photo loaded. Damian in the penthouse gym—shirtless, skin gleaming with fresh sweat under the overhead LEDs. Chest carved, shoulders broad, arms flexed from whatever set he’d just finished. One hand held the phone out for the mirror selfie; the other raked back through damp, dark hair. A single bead of sweat traced a slow, devastating path down the center of his sternum, past the snarling bear tattoo, disappearing into the deep V below his navel. The waistband of his black gym shorts sat low. Too low.

Then, under the restaurant’s crystal lights, he lifts it. Gasps ripple again. My breath catches. His torso is sculpted perfection—hard abs, skin like golden marble. But there’s no tattoo. Not a trace. My body goes cold. “No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “No, it was there. I saw it.” Damian doesn’t look smug. He looks calculating. Dangerous. He slips his phone from his pocket, swipes, then thrusts it in my face. On the screen: a photo of him. And another man.

A strange kind of wave of relief ran in his body after knowing that she is not a lesbian. All of them finished their breakfast silently... ***** They were in the basement, Damian was standing in front of a man who was hanging in front him covered in his own blood, Rose and jack standing behind him with 2 other men... Damian was looking dangerously calm, his hands covered in blood and veins of his muscular arms were popping out due to his rolled up sleeves, he again sliced one of his finger making him scream in agony. "I won't repeat myself, Where is my drugs?..."

“You son of a bitch.” “I will fucking end you, Mancini,” Salvatore growled. Domenico made sure to shield me. “Lay a finger on her again, and they’ll never find your body.” A gasp left me as Salvatore pulled out his gun and aimed it at Domenico. “The body they’ll never find is y—” Domenico’s fist slammed into his face with such force Salvatore fell to the ground, his gun skidding across the floor. Domenico hissed and clutched his side, bending over. Worry knotted my stomach as I placed my hand on his back. He looked to me, his jaw clenched, and nodded.

Damon stopped what he was doing and gave Salvatore a I didn't ask for the details look. Salvatore stopped talking. He never asked for the details, he doesn't need them but Salvatore never fails to deliver them. Damon continued what he was doing again, his face was devoid of emotions. "He asked if he can see Daisy" Salvatore spoke again. Damon's bulky shoulders stiffened and he paused writing. His head raised to stare at Salvatore without saying a word. "I told him you didn't order that. I didn't let him" He provided quickly.

"You're right. Safety might be relative in your situation. But you're not actively being hurt right now. That's a start." "Is it?" Luca looked at her directly. "Because I feel like I'm just waiting for the next bad thing to happen. I feel like this is temporary and any moment someone's going to drag me back to....." His voice cracked. "I can't do this." "Yes, you can. You already are." Downstairs, Dante's phone buzzed. Unknown number. He answered it anyway. "Dante Salvatore." The voice on the other end was heavily accented Russian. "This is Viktor Kozlov. I believe we need to have a conversation."

“…You don’t know what paprika looks like?” “I mean… it’s the red stuff, right? Somewhere over there?” He didn’t even bother replying. Just muttered something about needing a doctor or an exorcist and rolled up his sleeves like a brooding kitchen god. Now listen—I’d seen book boyfriends do swoon-worthy things. Fight dragons. Write poems. Cry in the rain. But Damian Salvatore? Chopping onions like a five-star chef for the sake of family honor? I was stunned. “What next?” I asked, trying to be helpful.

I also have framed posters on my wall, but mine are of old sci-fi movies. People who don’t know Damon very well might expect him to have photos of fast cars or the All Blacks. He’s young and flash, and it’s true that he loves both of those things. But his offices bear beautiful oil paintings of Greek goddesses and angels in flowing white gowns with golden hair. Nobody ever guesses that he’s the artist. When I walk in, I discover him pacing up and down. One glance at his face tells me he’s furious. “What’s going on?” I ask.

“I see you’re struggling.” Keiran’s breathing was uneven. His wound was worse than I thought. I tightened my grip on him. Salvatore’s gaze lingered before he turned back to Donovan. “Shall we talk?” Donovan scoffed. “You came with swords, not words.” Salvatore shrugged. “A precaution.” He stepped forward, stopping just before Damien’s corpse. He glanced down at the body. No emotion. Just mild interest. Then he looked at Donovan again. “You killed your own blood.”