The fire crackled softly in Salvatoré’s grand office, shadows flickering across walls adorned with fine tapestries. Reclining in his leather chair, Salvatoré swirled a glass of dark wine, his crimson shirt a vivid contrast to the black oak desk before him. A man stood across from him, trembling, a stack of ledgers clutched to his chest.

“You disappoint me, Harold,” Salvatoré drawled, his voice smooth as velvet. “Three shipments lost. Careless.”

“My lord, I—” Harold stammered, but Salvatoré raised a hand.

“Excuses bore me.” Salvatoré leaned forward, his sharp eyes gleaming. “Solutions, Harold. Or consequences. Which shall it be?”

Harold swallowed hard. “I-I’ll recover the losses, my lord.”

“Good.” Salvatoré smiled faintly, a devil’s grin. “Do not fail me again. Or next time, we discuss this… differently.”

As Harold fled, Salvatoré leaned back, taking a long sip of his wine. "Ah," he murmured to himself, "men are so much more obedient when they fear the devil."