THE HEIR OF THE NOCTURNAL CLAN

THE SECRETARY OBSERVES

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 was far away.

Roman and Lara were a spectacle worthy of a telenovela, and Vera had the best seat in the house.

She stood and walked to the corridor window. The Aurora building stretched below her, empty corridors, closed doors. The setting sun painted the marble floor in shades of orange and gold. Vera rested her left hand on the sill — the hand with the thin scar running from thumb to wrist, a reminder that not all her missions had ended well.

The scar was from a knife. One night, during a human trafficking operation, she had underestimated a target. The man was handcuffed but managed to hide a blade in his boot. Vera was 26, the youngest on the team, and wanted to prove something. She paid the price. The scar reminded her every day that control was an illusion — the only thing one could control was one's own reaction to chaos.

She looked at the scar and thought of Lara. The woman who had walked into Roman's office like prey, but walked out with her head high. She wasn't a victim. Not completely. She had bitten back, and Vera respected that.

The phone on the desk rang. The shrill sound cut through the corridor silence like an alarm. Vera walked back slowly, sat down, and answered with her fingertips, without haste.

"Mr. Roman Kael's office. Good afternoon."

On the other end, a female voice, sweet and slightly breathless, replied: "Hi, Vera? It's me, Isadora. Is Roman there?"

Vera suppressed a sigh. Isadora. The model. Platinum blonde hair, blue contact eyes, a body sculpted in the gym and by cosmetic procedures. One of Roman's regular companions, though "regular" was a generous term. She showed up once a week, sometimes twice, always with the same script: an anxious phone call, an attempt to sound special, and the inevitable disappointment when Roman treated her like functional furniture — useful, but disposable.

"Mrs. Isadora." Vera kept her tone professional, but left a trace of ice in her pronunciation. It was a trick she had perfected: being polite enough not to be rude, but cold enough not to encourage intimacy. "Mr. Kael is in a meeting. May I take a message?"

"Oh, no, no, I just wanted to know if he'll be free tonight." Isadora tried to sound casual, but the urgency in her voice betrayed her. Vera could imagine the model sitting in some decorated apartment, freshly manicured nails tapping the table, heart racing. "I thought we could have dinner, you know? Somewhere nice. I bought a new dress..."

Vera raised an eyebrow, even though Isadora couldn't see her. She always has a new dress. It's the only thing she knows how to offer. Vera slid her finger across the agenda. The screen showed the dinner at Le Noir, the appointment with Lara, the meeting with the enforcers. No room for Isadora.

"Unfortunately, Mr. Kael has commitments tonight. And tomorrow as well." She paused for a calculated three seconds. "But I can schedule you for the day after tomorrow. In the evening. He's usually free after 10 PM."

"After tomorrow?" Isadora sounded disappointed, her voice wilting like a wilted flower. "But I'll be in Floripa for a photo shoot... Vera, can't you fit me in sooner? Even just for coffee?"

Vera thought for a moment. Isadora was a good girl. Not malicious, just naive — and desperate. She really believed that if she was perfect enough in bed, Roman would see her as something more. Poor thing. Her agent probably pressured her to maintain contact with Roman, because his name opened doors. Isadora was more hostage than lover.

"Mrs. Isadora, I'll be frank." Vera put her glasses back on, the gesture studied. "Mr. Kael isn't in a good place right now. He has unresolved personal issues consuming him." She lowered her voice, confidential. "If you push now, you'll end up hurt. My advice: wait. Give him space. If he wants to see you, he'll call."

Silence on the other end. Isadora seemed to be processing, and Vera heard her breathing become more uneven.

"Are you saying he's in love with someone else?" Her voice trembled slightly.

Vera didn't answer immediately. In love? No. Obsessed? Yes. There's a difference, and Isadora is too young to understand it.

"I'm saying he's distracted." Vera chose her words carefully, like defusing a bomb. "And distracted men make terrible lovers. Trust me, I've seen it before." She made a mental note: Isadora, day after tomorrow, 10 PM, meeting room 2. "I can schedule your visit for Saturday. He'll be calmer."

"Okay, Vera." Isadora sighed. "Thank you. Really."

"You're welcome." Vera hung up.

She placed the phone back on the hook and leaned back in her chair. The office chair wheels creaked slightly, a sound she'd known for years, a reminder that even the most solid objects wear down over time. Vera looked out the corridor window, where the twilight light painted the halls gold and amber, casting long shadows on the marble.

"Foolish child." She spoke to herself, a habit she'd developed after years of planned solitude. "You think a new dress will change the mind of a man who sees women as stepping stones."

She wasn't just talking about Isadora. She was talking about all of them — the models, the heiresses, the executives who paraded through Roman's office, all thinking they were the exception, the one who could pierce his armor. And they all failed, because none of them had clear eyes and a shared past.

Vera opened the tablet and pulled up Lara Monteiro's file. It wasn't hard. She still had access to the Federal Police systems, though no one knew that — not Roman, not her former colleagues, not the board. Her past as an agent had left her with a valuable skill: finding information others preferred to hide.

She read the data: Lara Monteiro, 25, born in Campinas, only child, mother deceased at 56, father unknown. Married to Rafael Monteiro for 4 years. One daughter: Mia Monteiro, 3 years old. Nothing extraordinary. But Mia's birth certificate... Vera zoomed in, her eyes scanning the printed lines. The registered father: Rafael Monteiro. But the conception date... Vera calculated quickly: the girl was born in March. If conceived in June of the previous year... Vera smiled — a dry smile, the corners of her mouth contracting in a gesture she barely felt. Five months before the marriage to Rafael. And nine months after she left Roman.

No doubt. Roman was the father.

Vera closed the file and rested her elbows on the desk. The rough oak against her skin was an anchor point. The pieces were coming together. Roman, the cold, calculating boss, was about to have dinner with the woman who abandoned him. And unless Vera read everything wrong, he planned more than just renewing a business contract. He wanted revenge. Or he wanted her back. Or both.

Vera couldn't decide which was more dangerous.

The phone rang again. Vera answered on the second ring.

"Mr. Roman Kael's office."

"Vera, it's me." Roman's voice sounded low, tired, the tone of someone who hadn't slept well in days. "I need you to check something. Lara Monteiro. Does she have the dinner information yet?"

"Yes, sir. The invitation was sent by email and message. Rafael confirmed both their presences."

"And her?" The question came faster, as if he were holding his breath. "Did she reply?"

Vera suppressed a smile. He's anxious. For the first time in months, the man who commands an empire is anxious like a teenager. It was almost comforting to see that beneath all the ice, there was still a human being.

"She read the messages, sir. But hasn't replied yet." She paused. "Do you want me to call her?"

Roman was silent. Vera counted five seconds. For him, it was an eternity.

"No. Leave it." His voice was hoarser now. "She'll show up."

"Are you sure, sir?"

"No." Roman hung up.

Vera looked at the phone, the receiver still warm against her ear. He trusted Lara would show up, even without confirmation. Blind faith, or deep knowledge? Vera tilted her head. He knows her. Knows she's the woman who always keeps her promises. Even when the promise destroys her.

She closed the tablet, but didn't stand. Her decision was made. Roman paid her well — very well — and she was loyal to the Night Clan. But Vera also had her own rules, a personal code she carried from her agent days. And one of them was: you don't let two ex-lovers destroy each other out of pride.

She pulled out her personal phone — not the work one, the other one, the one no one knew existed, hidden in a locked drawer. The device was old, a button phone, with contacts she still kept from her previous life. Lara's number was saved in the PF files, not in Aurora's system. Vera typed the message with her thumbs, each letter a choice:

"Mrs. Monteiro, this is Vera. Mr. Kael doesn't know I'm sending this. I need to see you before the dinner. Come tomorrow at 2 PM to the 'Velho Mundo' café, Augusta Street. It's not about the contract. It's about your daughter. Roman discovered the truth about the paternity. You need to decide how to tell him. Before he decides for you. - V."

Vera read the message three times. It was a risk. If Roman found out she was interfering, the trust between them would be broken. But if she did nothing, the dinner would be a battlefield where Lara would be unarmed.

She sent it. The device vibrated confirming the send, and Vera put the phone back in the drawer, locking it again.

Now the game was truly beginning. She didn't know if she was helping Lara or helping Roman. Maybe she was just helping herself to a little entertainment amid the routine of killers and contracts. But a part of her — the part that was still a cop — wanted to see justice.

Vera stood and walked to the window again. The city was beginning to light up, a sea of small suns stretching to the horizon. She thought of the moment she almost left the Night Clan. Three years ago, when the old boss died and Roman took over, she considered resigning. She didn't trust such a young man, so full of fury.

But then Roman called her to his office and said: "Vera, you're the only person in this building who isn't afraid of me. I need someone like that by my side." And she saw, in that moment, something most people didn't see: a wounded boy hiding behind an adult's armor. She decided to stay.

That night, Roman invited her to dinner at the penthouse. No security, no enforcers. Just the two of them, a bottle of wine, and a question she never expected to hear: "What would you do if the person you loved most abandoned you?"

She answered with a truth Roman would carry forever: "I would forgive her. But I would never let her forget."

Now, looking at the horizon, Vera saw her own reflection in the glass. She wasn't beautiful — never had been — but she was honest. And that honesty was her greatest strength.

"Welcome to the theater, Miss Monteiro." She spoke to the reflection. "The curtain is about to rise. And I'll be in the audience, drinking coffee."

She returned to the desk, sat down, and opened the tablet again. Roman's schedule awaited. The dinner at Le Noir was less than 24 hours away. And Vera, the secretary, the former cop, the silent observer, was ready to watch the circus catch fire.

But first, she needed to call the chef at Le Noir and confirm the mushroom risotto.