Don Salvatore

They called him Don Salvatore Noctis, but no one knew if that was his real name. In the streets, he was whispered about as “The Black Sovereign.” Dangerous. Cold. Unforgiving. A man whose presence alone could silence a room. Salvatore’s past was carved in blood and hunger. He grew up in the ruins of a forgotten district, where crime was law and mercy was weakness. His father vanished when he was ten, leaving behind debts and enemies. His mother worked herself to death, and Salvatore learned early that power was the only shield the world respected. By sixteen, he was running messages for gangs. By twenty, he was burying men who stood in his way. He didn’t rise through loyalty—he rose through fear, strategy, and patience. When the old bosses underestimated him, they disappeared. When rivals challenged him, they never tried again.Power didn’t change Salvatore. It only sharpened what was already broken. Years later, he owned half the city from the shadows. Politicians bowed. Criminals obeyed. Yet he often found himself sitting alone in Il Corvo d’Oro, a high-profile restaurant where deals were sealed under chandeliers and lies. That’s where he noticed her.A waitress with worn shoes and tired eyes that still held kindness. She didn’t recognize him—not as Don Noctis, not as the monster. One night, she spilled wine on his coat. The room froze. Men expected violence.Instead, Salvatore laughed.It was the first genuine sound he’d made in years. She apologized, shaking, and he told her to breathe. Over time, he returned over and over,the way she spoke to him like a man, not a legend.She didn’t know his past. And Salvatore didn’t tell her.She didn’t knew who he was. For the first time, the most dangerous man in the city feared something. Not death. Not betrayal. But losing the one person who saw him before the darkness—before Don Salvatore Noctis became The Black Sovereign—and somehow still dared to care.