Crimson Secrets

Chapter 7

Stefan

The car door swung open, and Eleanor stepped out into the night. My hand lingered, a silent invitation. “Thank you,” she murmured, her fingers brushing mine

I grinned, feeling like the protagonist of a classic romance. “My pleasure” I say offering my hand. She took it, and suddenly the world narrowed to just the two of us—the moon, the stars, and perhaps the promise of something more.

I had planned this moment—the ice cream, the shared laughter. I handed her the cone, but Eleanor’s curiosity danced in her eyes. "Hmm," she mused, "should I be worried that you know my favorite ice cream flavor?"

I leaned against the car, savoring the moment. “Remember,” I began, “I came over to your house to help Ed. When I went down to get some water, there you were—indulging in a large butterscotch ice cream.”

Eleanor blushed, her hand flying to her mouth. “Yeah,” she stammered, “I remember.”

I chuckle softly. "You were adorable," "And that’s how I knew."

She swatted my arm playfully. "Sneaky," she accused.

Eleanor’s curiosity lingered like a whispered secret. “What did you even tell Jacob?” she asked, her eyes searching mh face.

I smirked, a hint of mischief in my eyes. "I just told him to stay away from Edward and… you," "Anyways, don’t worry about it, Princess. I’ll take care of it."

“Okay, fair enough,” she finally said. “Now I’d like to go home.”

Eleanor stepped into the threshold, and I held the door open. "Thanks for the ice cream," she said, her voice soft.

I grinned, the night conspiring in their favor. "Your treat next time,” I proposed. “How about that?"

Eleanor’s eyes sparkled. "Sure, why not?"

"Good night, Sullivan," Eleanor replied, her footsteps fading as she walked toward her house.

The phone call unfolds—my father’s voice, concern etched in its timbre. I listen, my heart attuned to the words. The container—some weighty responsibility, perhaps. My father’s absence, a void I must fill.

"I’m sorry, son," regret lacing each syllable. "I would have taken care of that, but I can’t trust anyone with all the work, especially when I’m not there."

My resolve solidifies. "Yes, Dad," he replies, determination in his voice. "It’s fine. I’ll handle it."

"Bye, Stefan," the father says, and the line goes silent.

I hang up, the weight of duty settling on my shoulders. I know this dance—the steps of responsibility, the rhythm of sacrifice. And so I step forward, ready to shoulder the burden, ready to honor my father’s trust.

The port loomed before me—a realm of shadows and secrets. I stepped out of the car, my footsteps echoing on the cold pavement. The man awaited me, his eyes assessing, his handshake firm.

“I’m Sullivan Junior,” I introduced myself, handing over the briefcase filled with money. Mr. Persico’s smile was a thin line, his demeanor businesslike. “Send my regards to your father,” he said. “It was nice doing business with you.”

But my curiosity burned. The container—its contents shrouded in mystery. “Mr. Persico,” I asked, “do you mind if I test things out a little?”

“Sure,” he replied, nonchalant. “Go ahead. They’re all advanced and original.”

I took the keys, my pulse quickening. The container yawned open, revealing an arsenal—the tools of power, the currency of danger. Guns, sleek and deadly, lay in wait. I checked each one—loaded, functional. And then, I found it—the Smith & Wesson 76.

The gun fit my hand like destiny. I aimed for the target dummy, its head a blank canvas. Mr. Persico watched, amused. “You sure you can handle a beauty like that, kid?”

I didn’t answer. Instead, I squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out, the dummy’s head exploding in a spray of sawdust. “Sure,” I said, adrenaline coursing. “I can handle this beauty, Mr. Persico.”

His grin widened. “I’m impressed, Mr. Sullivan,” he admitted. “Looking forward to doing more business with you.”

“Of course,” I replied, my path set. “It will be our pleasure doing business with you.”

And so, in the moon’s indifferent gaze, we sealed our pact—a waltz of danger, a promise of profit.