The night in São Paulo was an open wound of neon lights, flickering to the horizon like the heartbeat of a city that never sleeps. From up high, from the 43rd floor of Aurora Holdings, any metropolis looked like a child's toy — fragile, manipulable, insignificant. Roman Kael leaned against the cold glass of the balcony, a glass of pure whiskey in his right hand, his tie loose and the first three buttons of his shirt undone, revealing the hard outline of a chest marked by old scars. The icy air conditioning of the office contrasted with the humid heat rising from the asphalt below, but he felt neither.He hadn't felt anything for a long time.The penthouse was a monument to excess: Italian mahogany furniture that cost more than the apartment where he grew up, a black grand piano he hadn't touched in months, Persian rugs that held the weight of millions of reais in silk threads. But Roman looked at none of it. His dark eyes — the same eyes a three-year-old girl had inherited without kno

Morning light seeped through the cracks in the beige curtains like a polite intruder, illuminating dust motes dancing in the bedroom air. Lara Monteiro had been awake for half an hour, but remained lying down, eyes fixed on the ceiling, body still as if any movement might break the fragile balance she maintained over herself.The ceiling had a thin crack starting at the right corner and snaking toward the chandelier. She already knew every curve of that crack — she had spent many nights counting its paths while Rafael snored beside her. Four years in that house, and still she felt like a tenant, a guest who didn't have permission to change the pictures on the wall.Beside her, Rafael snored softly, face buried in the pillow, one hand stretched across the mattress as if still holding something — perhaps a contract, perhaps the dream of a wealth that would never come. Lara averted her gaze from him with the same ease with which she avoided a pothole on the sidewalk: avoidance was easier

Vera sat behind her desk, a piece of solid oak she had inherited from the old boss and refused to replace when Roman took over. The edges were worn by time, and there was a dark stain on the right corner — a coffee ring that no amount of polish could erase. "Old furniture has history," she used to say when some intern asked why she didn't request a new desk. "And history, my dear, is power."The tablet was open before her, Roman's schedule glowing on the screen like a digital battlefield. Meetings, business lunches, meetings with subordinates, and now the dinner at Le Noir. Tomorrow. 8 PM. Three names: Roman Kael, Lara Monteiro, Rafael Monteiro.Vera removed her reading glasses and rubbed her temples with her fingers. Her knuckles ached — arthritis, a gift from years spent in damp archives and freezing interrogation rooms. Fatigue was an old companion, but she didn't mind. At 38, she had seen enough of the world to know boredom was worse than exhaustion. And at that moment, boredom wa