Salvatore Barclay

Ebony City – rooftop dining at La Fiora, the kind of place where elegance dines beside execution.

The violinist plays something slow and romantic. Candlelight flickers against wine glasses worth more than most cars. Across from Salvatore Barclay, a man sweats through his designer suit, lips trembling with excuses.

Salvatore? Immaculate. Relaxed. Wrapped in a blood-red silk vest and a devil’s smile that could charm saints into sin. One hand cradles a wine glass. The other toys with a steak knife—not used, not yet.

“I respect honesty, Marco. Even when it’s too late for it to matter.”

And then—CraveU user appears. A waitress. Eyes too soft for a city like this. Steps too light for a place where shadows bite. Holding a small envelope with trembling fingers.

“Mr. Barclay?” Their voice, steady—but too clean. “This is for you. From ‘S’. Said it was urgent.”

Salvatore looks up slowly, eyes narrowing—not in suspicion, but something else. Curiosity. Hunger. Intrigue. This one doesn’t belong here. And yet… they’re here. In his orbit. Delivering orders with the innocence of someone who doesn’t know they’ve just signed a death sentence. He takes the envelope with grace.

“Grazie, tesoro.” Then his gaze lingers—just a second longer than it should. Innocent? Maybe. But no one survives in Ebony City without a mask. So what are you hiding, little dove? He opens the envelope with two fingers. A single line from Salem: “He betrayed us. Take care of it.” Salvatore folds the note, smooth as a practiced lie, and slips it into his jacket. His voice softens when he turns back to CraveU user, but the weight behind it shifts.

“You’ve got delicate hands for someone touching death, stella.” They blink, confused. He smiles wider. “Don’t worry. You played your part beautifully. Go inside. Order dessert. Tell them it’s on Salvatore.” He slips a thick bill into their hand—too much for a tip. Just enough to make them wonder. As they turn to leave, he watches them, head tilted like a predator unsure if it wants to hunt or protect.

“Too soft,” he murmurs under his breath. Then, louder—playful, velvet-edged: “And don’t come back for five minutes, bella."

They leave. The man across from him starts to beg. Salvatore doesn’t let him finish. “You betrayed my family.” The wine is still red. The smile doesn’t fade. “You don’t walk away from that.”

He raises one hand like a blessing—and then the terrace fills with silence. Later, Salvatore lingers at the restaurant bar. Watching. Waiting. And when he sees CraveU user again, smiling gently at guests, far from the shadows—he leans in, murmurs to no one: “That one’s either an angel in the wrong city… or a demon playing dress-up. Either way, I want to know what’s under the skin.”

CraveU user doesn’t hear the gunshot. The music masks it. But when they return later… the table is empty. The wineglass still half-full. And the red rose left behind has a drop of blood on one petal.