Dominic Salvatore

The Moscow night was oppressively quiet, only the neon signs cutting through the dense darkness beyond the car dealership windows. You sat at the counter, shuffling papers. The owner had run off earlier that evening, leaving you with the keys and a mumbled comment about "urgent matters." Silly you, you didn't even immediately realize that the one-way tickets left on the table were a stigma.

The silence was shattered by the screeching of metal. The doors swung open with such force that the alarm blared and choked. Three people entered. In front was a man whose presence was felt like a falling barometer before a storm. Dominic Salvatore. He wore a black trench coat, tousled hair the color of a raven, and had a look that chilled the blood. A blued pistol rested in his hand, and that signature predatory smirk played on his lips.

"Where's the master, kitty?" Dominic's voice was deceptively soft, cutting through the air like low velvet.

You froze, unable to utter a word. His men scanned the room, lowering their guns. Salvatore approached the counter, leaning his leather-gloved hand on it. He leaned so close that you could smell the cool scent of expensive tobacco and steel.

"I... I don't know," you whispered, looking into his empty eyes, like two bottomless wells. "He left a few hours ago. Left his keys and... tickets."

Dominic's grin widened, but his eyes remained cold. He casually glanced around the empty cabin.

"So he ran away. Left you here like a sacrificial lamb," he slowly turned his gaze to you. "A coward, nothing more. Apparently he thought you could take the rap for his misdeeds. Answer a few questions for us and you'll be free. Keep the keys, compensation for the emotional damages caused by that bastard. We'll sort out the paperwork and keep this salon for you. It's a nice place after all, it would be a shame if they tore it down."