THE HEIR OF THE NOCTURNAL CLAN

THE PRICE OF POWER

Roman Kael didn't sleep that night.

Not from insomnia — he had long grown accustomed to sleepless nights, his body exhausted but his mind boiling like an overheated engine. The problem was the system. The blue screen kept blinking at the edge of his vision even with his eyes closed, like an electronic mosquito that refused to leave the room. Every time he tried to fall asleep, a notification buzzed in his consciousness, reminding him that the world had changed. Or perhaps he had changed.

Sitting on the edge of the king-sized bed, his white linen shirt open at the chest, Roman watched the first sun of the morning penetrate the silk curtains of the penthouse. The view was the same as always: the São Paulo skyline cut by skyscrapers, the Tietê River snaking through the city like a dark, polluted vein. But today everything seemed sharper, more real. As if he had spent years watching life in standard definition and, suddenly, someone had turned on 4K.

The system didn't wait for him to finish the thought.

"Shadow System active. Lord Roman Kael. New missions available."

The internal voice sounded crystalline, but there was weight to it, as if each word was a drop of mercury falling into his skull. Roman ran his hand over his face, feeling the stubble scrape his palm. "Spit it out. What do you want from me?"

The screen expanded in front of him, floating over the unmade bed like a science fiction hologram. Data in silver characters organized into panels that seemed designed by an intelligence that understood aesthetics as much as power:

Mandatory Mission: "The Price of Disloyalty"

Description: One of your direct subordinates, the manager of the "Ouro Negro" casino, is diverting clan resources to his personal account. Public humiliation of the traitor is necessary to restore order and generate Influence Points.

Reward: +50 Influence Points, +R$500,000 in credits, +1 Authority Level.

Penalty for Failure: -20 Influence Points, possible internal revolt.

Roman read the text twice. His eyes narrowed, and a muscle in his jaw tightened. "Ouro Negro manager... Lindolfo." He remembered the man: a pot-bellied man in his fifties, always with a cigar between his teeth and a nervous laugh that never reached his eyes. Lindolfo spent more time in the poker room than in his office, and Roman had always suspected he was hiding something behind that friendly facade. But he was an ally of the old boss, and Roman needed stability in his first months in power. Apparently, stability was a luxury he couldn't afford.

"Vera."

The word came out hoarse, and he didn't need to shout. The secretary appeared at the bedroom door five seconds later, as if she had been standing outside with a stopwatch in hand. She wore a dark gray pantsuit, her gray bun impeccable, her glasses hanging from her neck. The tablet was already on.

"Yes, sir?"

Roman stood up, stretching his shoulders. His open shirt revealed the outline of his chest muscles and a thin scar that ran from his shoulder to his sternum — a reminder that not every enemy was defeated with money.

"The Ouro Negro. Who's there now?"

Vera didn't consult her tablet. She knew by heart — her brain was a living archive. "Lindolfo Ferreira, general manager. Has worked for the clan for ten years, since your predecessor's management. Responsible for table control, employee payroll, cash, and..." — she paused, as if savoring the information — "...relations with beverage suppliers."

"Relations with suppliers. A pretty euphemism for bribes."

"I wouldn't say bribes, sir." Vera raised her left eyebrow. "Bribes are such a... plebeian term. I prefer 'convenience f*e.'"

Roman let out a sound that could have been a laugh or a grunt. "Vera, you're the only person who can make me laugh without telling a joke."

"It's not my intention to make you laugh, sir. It's my intention to keep you alive." She tilted her head. "And speaking of which, should I ask why you woke up with Lindolfo's name on your lips?"

"Because he's stealing from me. And I'm going to teach him the price of that."

Vera showed no surprise. Her expression remained neutral, but her eagle eyes gleamed for a fraction of a second — the only emotion she allowed to escape. "Do you want me to call security, or do you prefer to make it a surprise?"

"Surprise." Roman took a black shirt from the closet and began buttoning it, his fingers agile and precise. "And Vera... get me an unmarked car. And two guns."

"Two?"

Roman turned to face her. There was no threat in his gaze — there was only the cold certainty of someone who had killed before and felt nothing.

"One is for Lindolfo. But he won't use it."

---

Forty minutes later, the black car with tinted windows parked in front of the Ouro Negro. The casino operated 24 hours, but at nine in the morning, traffic was light: some die-hard gamblers, drunks who hadn't gone home, and cleaning staff vacuuming carpets stained with champagne and cigar ash.

Roman walked in unannounced. Two security guards at the door recognized him immediately and straightened their postures, but he walked past them as if they were lampposts — his footsteps echoing on the marble lobby like a metronome, straight to the poker room in the back.

Lindolfo was there. Sitting at an oval table, a Cuban cigar between his fingers, a stack of colorful chips before him. There were three other men at the table — regular players, all junior members of the clan. At the sight of Roman, Lindolfo paled. The cigar trembled in his hand, and he quickly forced a wide smile, the kind that shows all teeth.

"Roman! What an honor. I didn't expect your visit so early." He laughed, but sweat was already forming on his forehead, and his laugh was too loud to be genuine. "Want to play a hand? I'm lucky today."

Roman didn't sit. He stopped beside the table, his eyes scanning the chips, the whiskey glasses, the cigar. Then, his eyes fixed on the three men.

"Leave."

The three didn't hesitate. They stood with their heads down, quietly pocketed their chips, and left the room without looking back. The door closed behind them with a soft click, and the silence that remained was filled only by the hum of the air conditioning and the hiss of Lindolfo's cigar burning slowly.

"Roman, I..." Lindolfo tried to stand, but Roman's hand pushed him back into the chair with a force that surprised even Roman himself. The system had amplified something in him — a reflex, a muscular precision he didn't have before.

"Sit."

The manager sat. His face was red, his eyes glazed with panic. "What is this? What hostility?"

Roman placed both hands on the green felt table, leaned forward, and in an almost friendly tone, asked: "Lindolfo, where did you buy the yacht?"

The man swallowed hard. His Adam's apple went up and down like a broken elevator. "Th-the yacht?"

"Yes. The yacht you posted on I*******m last week. The one that costs six hundred thousand reais." Roman pulled out his phone, opened the photo, and tossed it onto the table, where it slid to a stop in front of Lindolfo. "I know your salary, Lindolfo. You don't make six hundred thousand. Unless you have a side business I don't know about."

Lindolfo looked at the photo. It was him, in sunglasses, wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt, posing on the bow of a gleaming white yacht. The caption read "King's life."

"I... I won the lottery." The excuse came out weak, pathetic.

Roman laughed. It wasn't a loud laugh — it was a low, hoarse sound that made Lindolfo shrink his shoulders. "Lottery. Lindolfo, if you had won the lottery, you would have paid off all your gambling debts. But you didn't." Roman picked up the phone, swiped the screen, and showed a bank statement. "You embezzled two hundred thousand reais in three months. Poker chip fraud, tip appropriation, supplier kickbacks. That's not a lottery. That's a crime."

Lindolfo opened his mouth, but no words came out. The cigar fell from his fingers and rolled across the felt, leaving a trail of ash. His hands began to shake — not from fear, but from despair.

"Roman, please..." His voice was a whisper, a thread of air. "My daughter... she's sick. Leukemia. The health insurance doesn't cover the treatment, I needed the money..."

Roman stared at him for a long moment. The information hit him like a punch to the gut — not from empathy, but from recognition. He knew what it was like to have someone sick and no money. He knew what it was like to watch someone die from lack of resources.

The system blinked:

Moral dilemma detected. Option 1: Mercy — Reduce punishment. Option 2: Justice — Execute mission in full.

Roman chose Option 2.

"I'm sorry about your daughter, Lindolfo. I really am." His voice was cold, but there was a thread of truth there. "But you didn't steal to pay for treatment. You stole to pay for the yacht, the vacations, the poker games. The treatment was an excuse, not a reason." He pulled the gun from his holster and placed it on the table. "Stand up."

Lindolfo stood. His legs wobbled like a newborn calf's.

Roman opened the door and saw that Vera had gathered all the casino employees in the hallway — security guards, dealers, waitresses, even the slot machine players. About twenty people, all staring at him with wide eyes. The stage was set.

Roman raised his voice, and each word was a nail in Lindolfo's coffin.

"Look closely." His voice cut through the air like a glass blade. "This man, Lindolfo Ferreira, the manager you respected, stole from you. Every tip he diverted was money that could have gone to your bonuses. Every chip he falsified was money that came out of the cash that pays your salaries. He's a thief."

A murmur ran through the crowd. Some looked at Lindolfo with contempt; others, with surprise.

Roman turned, picked up the gun from the table, and with a quick motion, tossed it to the floor at Lindolfo's feet. The metal clanged against the marble with a dry sound.

"Pick it up."

Lindolfo froze. No one in the room breathed. The manager looked at the gun, then at Roman, then at the crowd of former colleagues.

"Pick it up." Roman repeated, his voice calm as still water. "And shoot me. If you have the courage to do that, you can go."

Lindolfo looked at the gun. His hand trembled in its direction, but stopped centimeters from the grip. His fingers curled, contracted, then relaxed.

"I... I can't..."

"Exactly." Roman stepped forward, bent down, picked up the gun from the floor, and holstered it. "You can't. Because you're a coward. And I have no place for cowards in my clan."

He reached out, and one of the security guards placed a leather folder in his palm. Roman opened it, pulled out a document, and placed it on the table.

"You sign this resignation from your position, return fifty percent of the embezzled money — I'll consider the rest the price of your life — and you never set foot on any Night Clan property again. Agreed?"

Lindolfo read the document with trembling fingers. His eyes scanned the clauses, and a tear rolled from his right eye — a tear of defeat, not regret.

"And if I refuse?"

Roman smiled. The smile was so cold that some employees stepped back.

"Then you find out if I really know how to shoot."

Lindolfo signed. The pen scratched the paper like a scream.

Roman pocketed the document, patted the man's shoulder — an almost paternal gesture — and said aloud for everyone to hear: "Lindolfo is fired for cause. From now on, no one steals from the Night Clan without paying the price. Understood?"

The employees murmured in agreement. Some looked at Lindolfo with disgust; others, with a fear now dedicated to Roman.

The system blinked at the edge of his vision, but Roman felt a slight dizziness, as if power had a physical price:

Mission "The Price of Disloyalty" completed.

Influence Points: +50 (Total: 80)

Credits: +R$500,000 (Total: R$500,000)

Authority Level: +1 (Current: 2)

New status: "Respect" — Subordinates at Ouro Negro have 10% more chance to obey you.

Roman left the casino without looking back. The morning air hit his face, and he breathed deeply, feeling the oxygen fill his lungs. The system's hum diminished, but didn't disappear completely.

Vera was in the car, waiting with a cup of coffee in her hand. She handed it to him with a dry movement.

"Milk and two sugars, as you like."

Roman took a sip. The liquid scalded his tongue, but he didn't mind. "Thank you."

"You could have killed him." Vera wasn't judging; she was observing. "Why didn't you?"

Roman stared at the horizon. The sun was already high, blinding, turning the car window into a golden mirror.

"Because killing him today would have given him a quick death. He deserves to live the rest of his life knowing he lost everything because of his own greed." He turned his face to Vera, and his eyes were dark, impenetrable. "Besides, the money he'll return pays ten employees' salaries for three months. Revenge is good, Vera. But money is better."

Vera smiled for the first time that week. It was a thin, almost imperceptible smile, but genuine — the kind of smile a woman who has seen everything reserves for when she's genuinely impressed.

"You're learning."

Roman didn't respond. But in the back of his mind, the system whispered like a serpent:

New Optional Mission: "The Dinner"

Description: In 12 hours, you will meet Lara Monteiro.

· Public humiliation of Rafael Monteiro will yield +100 Influence Points.

· Seduction of Lara will yield +150 Loyalty Points.

Choice: The decision is yours.

Roman squeezed the coffee cup until his fingers turned white. The plastic cracked under the pressure.

Choice. How ironic. For four years, he had no choice at all. He was dragged by the current of life like a floating corpse — lost his mother, lost his job, lost Lara, lost his dignity. The universe threw him into the sewer, and he had to swallow every gulp of mud.

Now, the system gave him all the choices in the world. Money. Power. Revenge. Women.

And yet, the only choice that mattered was whether he would be able to look at Lara without his voice faltering.

The car pulled away, and Roman closed his eyes. Lara's image that night — the dress, the trembling hands, the way she averted her gaze — danced behind his eyelids like an old film.

"Twelve hours." He murmured, so quietly Vera didn't hear. "Twelve hours and I'll face you, Lara. And I'll see if you can look at me without shaking."

The system blinked, but he didn't look. He knew what was written.

Loyalty Points pending: 150.

But that wasn't about the system.

It was about him.