Salvatore’s p.o.v

Romanov strode toward us, his steps steady, unhurried, but each one carried weight. The dock grew quieter the closer he came, like the air itself knew better than to make a sound in his presence. His men flanked him, but they didn’t need to draw weapons the real weapon was the man himself.

He was dressed immaculately, a dark coat draped over broad shoulders, his silver hair slicked back. A cigar burned between his fingers, faint smoke curling around his sharp features. ...