Stefan Salvatore Novels & Stories

He crumpled to the ground, groaning. Salvatore, still bound and at the mercy of my men, watched with a hint of amusement. "You're a hothead," he said, his voice dripping with contempt. "Your father was the same way." "And now," I said, crouching down to look him in the eye. "You're going to tell me everything that you had planned." For a moment, I saw doubt flicker in Salvatore's eyes. Then, he laughed, a harsh bark that sent a shiver down my spine. "You think you can threaten me?" he said. "You don't know who you're dealing with."

He'd rather tackle his father to the grave than see him hurt Wade. "You'll regret this," Salvatore scowled before he stood up and left. When he left, Vincenzo slumped in his seat, running his palms down his face. What should he do? He wanted to keep Wade safe. He wanted to spend a lifetime with Wade. Salvatore had ties to the Italian mob in Sicily. If the two of them clashed, it would cause a lot of attention and bloodshed. He wasn't afraid of the trouble. He was afraid that he might lose the most important person in his life.

“I’ll take back control of Vegas. If only Harold was alive to witness this moment, he'd known it was foolish going against my order and keeping you bastards alive,” “The only bastard was the useless mutt I sent a bullet to his head,” Lorenzo's face was a mask of fury. He was talking about Viktor. I still couldn't believe they were stepbrothers. “And I'll make sure to keep you alive and watch how I'll tear apart Dario and Savio. I rip out their organs, and you'll watch me feed it to them,” Salvatore stood up from his chair, and I suddenly felt sick. Bile turned in my stomach, rising to my throat. “No, I think I have a better idea. I'll make you do it, just exactly how you ripped out your moth

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.

And then Salvatore De Luca stepped out, adjusting the cuffs of his suit with casual malice, like he owned the fucking ground he stood on. The late evening sun caught the edge of his smile, sharp, poisonous. I hated him. I hated his guts. I hadn’t seen him since our fight and he seemed to have cleaned up nicely. I felt an old, cold rage settling over me, wrapping around my spine like armor. Salvatore wasn’t just after turf. He was after her. I stepped forward into the dying light, letting him see exactly how unimpressed I was. Salvatore spread his hands wide, mock-friendly. “Don Moretti,” he called out, voice smooth as oil. “Always a pleasure.”

he begged. Stefano's smile grew. "Poor you. I'd rather chop off your body parts every three hours. A slower, more miserable death." The man's face contorted in horror. "No!" Stefano replied with a dark smile. "Yes." He turned his back on him and signaled one of his loyal men, Savage. He was a bizarre looking man with scars and tattoos all over his face. A gay man who enjoyed inflicting gnarly wounds for the fun of it.

By the time I arrived at the pier, the sun was above the Thames, blanketing the entire place with heat. Salvatore was already there, leaning against the railing, smoke curling from his cigarette. He looked deceptively ordinary in his tailored suit despite being the heir to the Donati dynasty. "Vin," he greeted me, not bothering to extinguish his cigarette. "Quite the show your Kingwicke girl gave us this morning.” I kept my expression neutral. "Not as much as your man Rodriguez did." I said sarcastically “He gave a damn good show” Salvatore scoffed, flicking ash into the water. "I'm only doing what I was paid to do."

There was a coldness about him, not rage, just steady control that made him more terrifying. Steven exhaled a puff of smoke as he looked down at him, the cigarette tucked lazily between his fingers. The smoke curled in the air, framing his sharp features like a shadow. "Salvatore Conti, isn't it?" he said, voice calm. Too calm. Salvatore’s throat tightened. "Y-yes." He hadn't seen this man before. No enemy he recognized. So why was he here? What was this about? "I... I don’t understand," Salvatore stammered. "Have I done something wrong? Have I offended you?"

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.

Someone had routed it to Venom through a hidden account. “Who’s signature?” I asked. The name that came back made my stomach drop. Vito Salerno. We were age mates, his father had passed on the mafia seat to him just like me. The same guy who had been cozy at council meetings, the one who had talked about mergers and marriages like chess moves. The same man who had vouched for my engagement with Madison. The same man who smiled while asking for favors. “Salerno?” Marco said the name like a curse. Some names are heavy. That one weighed a ton.