Crimson Secrets

Chapter 11

Stefan

My mind churned with a tempest of emotions as I navigated the winding road back to Sullivan Mansion. The weight of my secrets bore down on me like an iron shroud, threatening to suffocate reason and clarity.

Edward, my best friend and confidant, had just been entrusted with my darkest truth: that I was destined to become a mafia boss. Yet, amidst the clandestine dealings and treacherous alliances, there was another secret that gnawed at my insides—a forbidden feeling for Eleanor.

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” I muttered, gripping the steering wheel. Eleanor knew about his dangerous path, yet her presence haunted me like a siren’s call.

I stood there, the weight of the moment settling on my shoulders like the well-pressed fabric of my suit. The room buzzed with anticipation—the soft murmur of guests, the clinking of glasses, and the distant laughter. The chandeliers cast a warm glow, illuminating the polished wood and delicate floral arrangements.

Dad stood by the grand piano, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he watched me. His tuxedo was impeccable, a reflection of his meticulous nature. He’d always been the steady anchor, the one who had never left my side. Now, he was witnessing a different kind of milestone—the transformation of his son into a man.

Mom, elegant in her sapphire-blue gown, approached me. Her smile held a mix of pride and nostalgia. She’d been my confidante, the one who listened to my dreams and fears. Her touch was gentle as she brushed a nonexistent speck off my lapel. “Do I have something on my face?” I’d asked, half-joking. But her response was tender, a glimpse into her heart. “No,” she said, “just looking at a grown up fine young man”

I adjusted my bow tie, feeling its silk texture against my skin. “Yeah,” I replied, “I can’t believe it either.” The years had slipped by, leaving behind memories and scars.

The unspoken question hanging in the air. “Stefan,” Mom said, her voice soft, “it’s okay if you don’t want to be a part of all this.” She gestured to the opulence around us—the crystal flutes, the silverware, the symphony of clinking china. But her eyes held understanding, a depth that transcended the glittering surface.

I met her gaze, my heart steady. “It’s okay, Mom,” I said. “This is who I am. This is who I chose to be.” The words carried weight, a declaration of self. The path diverged, and I stepped onto the one that resonated with my truth. It wasn’t rebellion; it was authenticity—the quiet revolution of acceptance.

Mom’s smile wavered, a bittersweet curve. “Fair enough, my child,” she whispered. Her fingers brushed my cheek, and I felt the warmth of her love. “All the best,” she added, her voice catching. “Thanks, Mom,” I murmured. Gratitude swirled within me—the kind that transcends words. She stepped back, joining Dad by the piano. Their eyes met, and I saw the unspoken conversation.

The grand ballroom hummed with anticipation, the crystal chandeliers casting a shimmering glow over the assembled guests. The air smelled of polished wood, aged wine, and whispered secrets. I stood by Dad’s side, the weight of his words settling on my shoulders like the mantle of responsibility.

His voice, smooth and seasoned, cut through the buzz. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began, raising his champagne flute, “I have an announcement to make.” The room hushed, eyes turning toward him. Dad’s tuxedo was impeccable, the silver at his temples a testament to years of leadership. “I’m retiring,” he continued, “and passing the reins to my heir.” His gaze found mine, and I straightened my spine. “Cheers,” he said, and the room echoed, glasses clinking in unison. “To the new ruler of Sullivan Empire.”

Guests approached, their faces a blur of smiles and handshakes. I navigated the sea of tailored suits and elegant gowns, each introduction a snapshot of alliances and affiliations. And then, I saw him—Mr. Persico, a titan in the business world. His salt-and-pepper hair framed a sharp gaze—one that had dissected contracts and sealed deals. We shook hands, the grip firm and respectful.

“Always a pleasure, Mr. Persico,” I said, my voice steady. His smile held a hint of intrigue, as though assessing the next move on the chessboard. “Looking forward to doing further business, Mr. Sullivan,” he replied. His words were a nod to tradition, a recognition of lineage.

“Thank you,” I murmured. And then, with a polite smile, he moved on, melting into the crowd. The room pulsed with conversations, each thread weaving the fabric of alliances and ambition. But I stood there, the weight of the Sullivan name on my shoulders, the legacy of my parents urging me forward.

I leaned against the balustrade, the night breeze ruffling my hair. The stars blinked, indifferent to corporate machinations.

The ballroom held its breath, a tableau of power and ambition. I sat, the plush chair cocooning me, and surveyed the room. The chandeliers dripped crystal tears, and the air tasted of champagne and intrigue. And then, I saw—Edward.

I stood, my pulse quickening. “Dad,” I whispered, “who is that?” My finger pointed discreetly at Edward, who stood across the room. Dad’s response was matter-of-fact, delivered with the ease of someone who’d danced this dance before. “That,” he said, “is the rival’s son. Your future rival, you might say.”

My mind whirred. Rivalry—etched into our corporate DNA. The Sullivan Empire versus the Harrington Empire. Our boardrooms had sparred, our strategies clashed. And now, here stood Edward, the embodiment of that rivalry.

“But who invites a rival to their party, Dad?” I blurted out. It seemed absurd, like inviting a wolf to a lamb’s feast. Dad’s response was cryptic. “Consider it reconnaissance,” he said. “I wanted you to take a look at your future rival. Learn his moves, understand his game.”

And then, they approached—Edward and his family. Carlyle Harrington, the patriarch, led the way. His silver hair gleamed, and his eyes held secrets. We shook hands, the formality of the gesture. “I’m Stefan Sullivan,” I said, my voice steady. “The new CEO of Sullivan Empire.”

Carlyle’s grin was wolfish. “Carlyle Harrington,” he replied. “Current CEO of Harrington Empire.” His gaze shifted to Edward, who extended his hand. “Nice to meet you, Stefan,” Edward said. His tone was polite, detached. But his eyes—they whispered a different story. Sadness, regret, perhaps even envy.

“Congratulations,” Edward added, as if greeting a stranger. I wondered what battles he’d fought.

Carlyle stepped forward. “I’m sorry,” he said, “my daughter was busy. But congratulations, young man.” His words hung in the air, a bridge between our worlds. And then, with a nod, he retreated.

I glimpsed Edward’s profile—the curve of his jaw, the weight of legacy on his shoulders. We were chess pieces, moving across the board, our fathers orchestrating the game. But in Edward’s eyes, I saw more—a shared burden, a silent plea.

I traced the embroidered pattern on my bedspread, the threads unraveling like my thoughts. How had it come to this?