Stefan Salvatore 1864 Novels & Stories

A figure leaned against a sleek black Maserati and a thick cigarette burned between his fingers while he watched me with the kind of scrutiny that usually made weaker people wither. I recognized him at first glance. He was Domenico Salvatore, the Fourth Capo of the Salvatore family. He hadn’t changed much— he was tall, dark and still exuding that effortless Sicilian arrogance. He was wearing a tailored suit that fitted like a second skin and he looked at me the way a predator studies a rival that had stepped into its hunting ground. I let him look and let him wonder why I was here. I could bet he was speculating if it was because my father was dying.

Elena had stripped that history bare long before she ever wore the name Elena Lafayette. The Salvatore name hadn’t been born a thing of dread. It had been forged into something terrifying, chiseled with limitless brutality by generations who had never learned the meaning of compromise. Dante’s grandfather, Enzo Salvatore, was the kind of man who believed honor and legitimacy could be purchased—so long as the stack of money was tall enough and the blood in his veins cold enough. He had very nearly proved that theory. The Storm on the Sea of Galilee.

Carlo Salvatore was a man of contradictions, a monster whom many mistook for a saint, a killer. Standing at 6'4", he carried himself like the beast he was. His skin was a drawing board of violence, marked by knife scars from knife fights and gunshot wounds. A black spiderweb tattoo crawled up the left side of his neck, with which an inscription of a faded barcode LF-117, was covered. The barcode and the spiderweb tattoo were the only remnants of a past he’d burned to the ground.

With that, Carmela raised her own arm and slapped Rosaria across the face. Salvatore stared at Carmela, realizing this venomous woman had single-handedly destroyed his entire life. He grabbed an iron hoop from a barrel and lunged, plunging the sharp metal directly into her chest. And Salvatore didn't stop. Gripping the bloody hoop, he stabbed wildly at every vital part of Carmela’s body—her abdomen, her neck, her face. More and more blood gushed from Carmela's body, her screams echoing throughout the winery.

“But Alex isn’t them.” “No,” Salvatore said, voice low and reverent. “He’s worse. Because he thinks he can be both king and saint.” He turned back to the map. “But I will drag him into the dark where I live. I will make him choose. Family or power. Love or survival. And when the time is right…” Salvatore slammed a dagger into the heart of the map. “…I’ll return. And he will kneel.” Meanwhile—New York The rain had returned.

Once again Stefano glances at me, but I show him nothing. Bringing both his on the desk, he joined his hands and then taking a breath he continued, " Giovanni's the leader of the Irish mafia, who at that time were our allies or I say worked for my uncle and they betrayed us. They joined hands with our enemies. But they were destroyed ruthlessly by my dad, who took his revenge from both the mafias for killing my uncle."

Salvatore Salvatore pulled Alexa closer in the back seat of the car as Clayton drove. Their flight had landed only a few minutes ago at Bradford, Inc.’s private hanger at the airport. Alexa had slept for most of the flight, and Salvatore was exhausted as well. They’d filled their honeymoon with adventures he would remember for the rest of his life. His brother, Eric, had been the one to push Salvatore out of his comfort zone before he died. When his brother was gone, he’d lost the will to have fun.

“And what rumors would those be?” Salvatore’s smile widened. “They say the son of Italy’s capo bought not one, but two women from La eMe.” I kept my expression unreadable. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Salvatore laughed—a humorless sound. “Of course you don’t. But rumors... well, they spread fast. I’ll be watching, cugino.” He gave my shoulder a pat before walking away, leaving behind the unspoken promise that this wasn’t over.

Salvatore’s Headquarters The grand boardroom of Salvatore Group was filled with silenced conversation as the company’s senior executives and managers gathered for their year-end meeting. The company’s patriarch, Robert Salvatore, sat at the head of the table in full authority and calmness. Estefan sat beside him, his expression sharp and focused. Adrian was also present; he leaned back in his chair, only observing everything that was happening.

The next morning, Salvatore left Napleton City. He did not return to Sicelia right away. Instead, he told the driver to head to the outskirts of the city. There was an open stretch of land. Joseph's people had once found a small stone there. A nameless grave. Now, the stone had been replaced with a white marble headstone. It read: [Liliana Esposito.] [Lost at Napleton City’s port at the age of two.] [Twenty years later, she finally came home.] Salvatore stood in front of the grave.