2026-08-25 00:18:13
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THE LINE
The rain had been falling since dawn, a steady drumbeat against the windows of the penthouse, turning the city into a blur of grey and silver. Roman stood in his study, the lights off, the glow of the monitor the only illumination in the room. On the screen, a photograph.A young woman with dark hair and her father's cold eyes, though she didn't know it. Beatrice Moretti, twenty-five years old, art historian, living in Milan. In the photograph, she was laughing at something off-camera, a glass of wine in her hand, her face open and unguarded.Roman had been staring at it for an hour.The door opened behind him. He didn't turn.— "Senhor." — Ciro's voice was hesitant, the way it always was when he had to deliver something he wasn't sure Roman wanted to hear. — "We have the information you requested."— "Leave it on the desk."Ciro stepped inside, his boots leaving faint tracks on the marble floor. He placed a folder beside the monitor and then stood there, waiting.— "Is there somethin
THE CALM BEFORE THE STORM
For three days, the penthouse felt like a different world.Roman had never known stillness. His life had been a series of battles—first against poverty, then against oblivion, then against every rival who thought they could take what he had built. He had learned to sleep with one eye open, to measure every silence for the threat hiding inside it.But those three days were different.Mia woke early, as she always did, and demanded pancakes with the solemn authority of a three-year-old who believed the world revolved around her breakfast. Lara cooked, her movements easy and unhurried, the tension in her shoulders slowly unwinding. And Roman sat at the island, drinking his coffee, watching them both as if he were observing a species he had long believed extinct.On the second morning, Mia climbed into his lap without asking permission and pressed a crayon into his hand.— "You have to draw the dragon." — She informed him. — "The princess is mine."— "And if I want to draw the princess?"
THE ITALIAN CONNECTION
A cobertura estava silenciosa quando Camila chegou. Ela passou pelas verificações de segurança com a facilidade de alguém que passou a vida inteira lidando com guardas armados e portas trancadas. Seus saltos tilintavam no piso de mármore, um ritmo preciso e constante que ecoava pela sala de estar.Roman a esperava junto à janela, com um copo de uísque na mão. Não lhe ofereceu um. Não se tratava de uma visita social.— Você está com uma aparência terrível — disse Camila, acomodando-se na poltrona em frente a ele. — O ferimento de bala?— "Já passei por piores." — disse Roman. — "O que você sabe sobre Moretti?"Camila cruzou as pernas, sua expressão mudando de divertimento para algo mais frio. — "Alessandro Moretti. Meu pai já fez negócios com ele. Não é um homem que você queira como inimigo."— "Eu não pedi um aviso. Eu perguntei o que você sabe."Ela inclinou a cabeça, estudando-o. — "Ele é cauteloso. Paranoico. Não confia em ninguém fora do seu círculo íntimo. Sua fraqueza é o ego. E
THE GATHERING STORM
A cobertura estava silenciosa quando Roman acordou. Por um instante, ele se esqueceu de onde estava — os eventos da noite anterior se misturaram a uma névoa de exaustão e algo que parecia perigosamente próximo da esperança. Então ele se lembrou. Lara. Mia. A ameaça. E o silêncio que se seguiu.Ele virou a cabeça no travesseiro. A porta do quarto de hóspedes estava aberta e, através dela, ele podia ouvir o murmúrio suave de vozes. A voz de Lara, baixa e reconfortante. A voz de Mia, aguda e curiosa. O som de uma criança rindo.Roman fechou os olhos e deixou o som o envolver. Ele nunca imaginara isso — uma manhã com Lara e Mia sob o seu teto, o cheiro de café vindo da cozinha, o som de pezinhos correndo pelo piso de mármore. Era uma vida que ele nunca ousara desejar. Uma vida que, por um breve instante, pareceu quase ao seu alcance.Ele se levantou, ignorando a dor incômoda no ombro, e foi até a cozinha. Lara estava no fogão, virando panquecas com destreza. Mia estava sentada na ilha, co
THE NEW THREAT
The penthouse was silent when Roman Kael woke. The first light of dawn crept through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting the marble floors in shades of amber and rose. He lay still for a moment, listening to the rhythm of his own breathing, feeling the dull ache in his shoulder where César's bullet had torn through flesh and muscle.He had been discharged from the hospital three days ago. The doctors had ordered him to rest for at least two weeks. He had given them one.Roman pushed himself up, ignoring the sharp protest from his shoulder, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The penthouse felt empty without Lara. She had stayed with him for two nights after his discharge, sleeping in the guest room, cooking meals he barely touched, watching him with those dark eyes that seemed to see straight through his armor. But yesterday, she had gone back to her apartment. To Mia. To Rafael.The thought of her under the same roof as that man made his blood boil. But he had no claim on
THE AFTERMATH
The hospital room was bathed in the pale light of dawn when Roman Kael finally allowed himself to close his eyes. The pain in his shoulder had dulled to a persistent ache, a reminder of the bullet that had almost ended his life. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the weight in his chest—the knowledge that César was only a piece of a much larger puzzle.Lara was still there, asleep in the chair beside his bed, her head tilted back, her breathing soft and even. She had refused to leave, refused to go home, refused to rest. She had stayed by his side through the night, her presence a quiet anchor in the storm.Roman watched her sleep, his eyes tracing the lines of her face. The dark circles under her eyes. The slight furrow between her brows. The way her lips parted slightly with each breath. She was exhausted, but she had stayed.Why? The question burned in his mind. He had given her every reason to walk away. He had used her, manipulated her, dragged her into a world of viole
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