Stefan Salvatore 1864 Novels & Stories

I mean, who could be so cruel? “I swear if I find the one, I’ll crush his soul,” Sara said. Nabi joined as well, “I think, it’s better for us to not get involved in anything like it.” After much silence, Steve said, “This might trouble Gloria but I feel like it’s work done by the men of Salvatore.” Everyone nodded at his comment. “Who is Salvatore?” I asked. “Zohan Salvatore, the king of Carnival,” Steve said and that’s when it clicked with me.

"Tell him the​ Wolf is back. And tell h​im the sheep is dead." Ten minutes later, Don Salvatore shuffled i⁠nto t‍he courtya‍rd in his dress⁠ing gow⁠n and​ slippers. He looked at Lo‌renz‍o. He looked at the blood‍ on the ground‍. He‍ smiled. A terri‍fyi​ng⁠,⁠ toothle​ss smile. "You look like a butcher, boy," S‍alva⁠tore‍ ca‌ckled.

Matteo Salvatore The warehouse looked dead from the outside. But hell was boiling inside. We entered in formation, silent. Me, Paolo, and three trusted men. All in the dark, breathing like predators. And he was there. Sitting on a steel chair, black shirt, cigarette in hand. Viktor Orlov. Or rather... Viktor Romano. My footsteps echoed on the concrete. He looked up, smiled like he’d been expecting me. “Salvatore,” he sneered. “I thought you were smarter.”

Spade shoved his hands in his pocket as he looked at Salvatore, narrowing his eyes at the man. "I'm going to ask you only once Salvatore, and in your own best interest, I suggest you tell me the truth, if you don't, he's going to do with you whatever he wants until you talk, Where is Sullivan"? Spade said, gesturing to Stefano who had an evil lopsided grin on his face, and his eyes looked deadly "Go fuck yourself Spade" Salvatore spat out, Spade shrugged before he turned to look at Stefano, he nodded discreetly and the man already knew what he would do as he advanced towards Salvatore.

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.

"Thirty days, Mr. Hamilton. Twelve million dollars. That's more than generous considering you tried to fake your death to avoid paying me." "I didn't fake my death! Someone drugged me! Someone tried to kill me!" "Perhaps." Salvatore's tone said he didn't believe it. "Or perhaps your plan simply went wrong. Perhaps you took too many sedatives. Perhaps your accomplices made mistakes." He paused. "Either way, you're alive. Which means you pay." "Please," I said, my voice breaking perfectly. "Mr. Salvatore, he just woke up. Give us time to figure out what happened. To find out who did this—"

Salvatore. I pushed the thought away immediately, he’s bounded by Omertà. He has been with me for years, through blood, through Diego. He wouldn’t, it can’t be one of the men. Salvatore Bianchi, Mikhail Reznikov, Kaia Morelo and Veleno Caruso were sworn to Omertà, they have already earned their place in blood. My phone buzzed suddenly, it was an unknown number. Private and untraceable. The room went silent, I answered without hesitation.

Lucien said, his voice deep and calm while he didn't even blink, his hand resting firmly on the back of my shoulder to keep me balanced as the yacht lurched again in the swell. "You really think you can just walk away from this and go back to writing stories for your clients, but you’re both already marked by the commission and you’ll never find a place in this world where you can hide from the people I work for," Salvatore shouted, and he tried to lung toward the cabin door as if he could still reach his hidden weapon, but he was too slow and his legs were failing him after the long, brutal night.

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.

He pulled it out and frowned at the screen. "Unknown number." He answered it anyway. "Hello?" His face went white. Dante was on his feet immediately. "Who is this?" Luca demanded into the phone. Then: "No. You're lying. He's in prison." Dante took the phone from him. "Who is this?" "Dante Salvatore." The voice was unfamiliar, male, with a heavy accent. "My name is Sergei Kozlov. Viktor's brother. We need to talk about returning what you stole from him."