Stefan Salvatore 1864 Novels & Stories

My legs dangled and my toes brushed the floor. My eyes wandered slowly around the room. They were framed pictures of Lorenzo shaking hands with politicians. Lorenzo at charity galas. Lorenzo on yachts. And then, tucked toward the back, almost hidden behind a larger frame, a smaller photograph I had never noticed before. Salvatore. Not a recent photo but a younger one. Maybe ten years ago. He stood alone in a tailored black suit, arms folded, expression unreadable. Even in the photo his presence was overwhelming, dark eyes staring straight into the camera as if he already knew someone would be looking back one day.

He smiled again, wider now, and stepped back as if we were just two old friends catching up. “You’ve done well with the mask,” he said lightly. “But I knew Elena. And I never forget people who help me survive a war.” I blinked. “Wait.. what?” He raised his glass. “Dante Salvatore. Former associate of your late alter ego. Once a thorn in Bruce Calloway’s side.” He tapped his glass to mine. “Still am.” The twist in my gut didn’t loosen. “What do you want?” “To help you,” he said plainly. “And to destroy Bruce. Piece by piece.”

At three in the morning, she gave up, made coffee, and researched Dante Salvatore until her eyes burned. The internet painted a picture of perfection. I am thirty-four years old. Self-made billionaire who'd built Salvatore Industries from nothing into a tech empire worth twelve billion dollars. Philanthropist. Bachelor. Devastatingly handsome in that sharp-edged way that probably made women forget their own names. But it was the older articles that caught her attention. The ones from ten years ago, buried beneath the glossy success stories. The ones about his sister. Isabella Salvatore, 19, Found Dead in Apparent Gang Violence.

In all of this chaos, Salvatore sat near the mini bar stand taking everything in and nursing his glass of alcohol. The guts of this man. He wasn’t even troubled. I caught sight of mother rushing to safety. Father was shaken but stood tall, with his guns in both hands. The people who dared do this were no other than the Giuseppe’s. Matteo’s father was not involved but I caught a glimpse of the man I had been betrothed to. He was the one leading his dogs, they turned the once clean and well arranged venue to a pile of shattered glasses and wasted food.

I asked full of questions to myself and also the man next to me. He smiled, making his dimples appear, "Of course. Follow your heart, I'm sure he still stupidly loves you." I hit his shoulder, "He's not stupid." "Who said he was stupid?" "You just now." I stuck my tongue at him irritatedly then left him alone. "Maybe he is." He smirked, "Did you know that Mr. Salvatore has gone bankrupt? " "Oh my God, is it for real?" I grinned, "That means we have to celebrate it."

I walk towards the now grave of a once living man. Capo Gio Moretti. A great leader, son, lover and the best brother. Salvatore is standing opposite to me, he's silently staring at the wet ground. "Salvatore" I begin, whatever has happened between us, I still can't see him so broken. He lifts up his dark gaze towards me "I'm sorry for your loss, there's no one more than me who wishes that the true killer is found and Gio gets his justice" I say truthfully.

Salvatore walked up to him and patted his back. "Thanks, Ivan. That’s what I like about you—you always know how to welcome me," Salvatore said, still smiling. He had taught me at a young age never to wear a smile, yet he could smile whenever he wanted. But don’t be fooled by Salvatore’s friendly demeanor—he’s a dangerous man, far more dangerous than I am. "You still haven’t told me why you’re back. You said you’d spend the rest of your life in Spain while I handled the DeLuca underworld," I said.

I requested. “Sure, oh hold on. She’s going inside her office. I have to go,” she said and ended the call. As I pulled up to the building, I couldn't help but notice how different it looked compared to my last visit. It had become grander and taller, a testament to Mr. Salvatore's hard work. As a member of the Mob, I couldn't help but feel proud of his success. Mr. Salvatore was a man of principles. He would support you if he believed you were headed in the right direction and your beliefs were reasonable. However, he would not tolerate mistakes. Despite being very sociable, charismatic, and kind, he had a temper that no one wanted to test. Those in the Mob knew that receiving a warning from

Tracking the reports from my investigators. I look at the organizational chart of the Family spread out in front of me. Capos. Soldiers. Associates. Some faces I’ve known for as long as I’ve been alive. People I’ve broken bread with. People whose children’s tuition I pay. I pick up a red marker to circle a name. Salvatore. He runs the Bronx. He’s been complaining about the new port taxes. Could he be bought? I cross it out. Sal is too stupid to loop a camera feed.

"Raine Alina Salvatore. Our little blessing." "She's absolutely perfect." I was so happy, I was sure I could explode. Everything was going perfectly, and then it all fell apart. There was a loud commotion going on outside and suddenly two men walked into the room. "Mr Lorenzo Salvatore, you are under arrest for the murder of Anthonio Mancini, and you have the right to remain silent..."