The yelling grew louder as I descended the staircase. Most of the family was gathered in the parlor, including the neighbor.

Don Fernando del Río was screaming at Angélica. Martin planted himself between my sister and Del Río as if he were Angélica’s husband. Incidentally, Laurent was there too, sitting by the harp, witnessing the scene as someone who watches a play by Lope de Vega.

What were they arguing about? I couldn’t tell. I assumed it had to do with the lawsuit and the elusive borders that had created so much conflict between the neighboring landowners already.

Between obscenities and insults to the mothers of everyone in the room Don Fernando del Río accused Martin of stealing a new client from him “under Angélica’s orders, for sure.” Apparently, Del Río had extended an invitation to a German acquaintance of his, a man he called Mr. Meier, to his ranch. The man, who happened to be a cacao buyer, was a potential client for a profitable business. It was practically a done deal until the irrepressible Don Martin met the German at a bar in Vinces and persuaded him, conquered him, bewitched him with the cacao from La Puri by offering him the beans at a ridiculously low price with the sole purpose of “ruining” Del Río.

“You don’t care about the money,” Fernando said. “All you people want is to destroy me. You and that vile, no-good father of yours!” His long finger pointed at Angélica.

On a primitive, guttural level, his insults irritated me. It was true that I hadn’t seen my father in decades, but I felt a certain loyalty toward him. Who did this man think he was to come here, to the house of a deceased man who couldn’t defend himself, and insult his daughter?

“I didn’t try to steal the client from you. He just happened to like our product better,” Martin said. “It’s not my fault that I’m such a good negotiator and you’re not.”

Honestly, Martin, do you have to gloat? He could at least try to placate the man to keep the peace.

The neighbor clashed against Martin and tackled him to the floor. Before long, they were rolling on the rug, hitting legs of tables and chairs and making ornaments tumble and fall. Leaning over Martin’s chest, a disheveled Fernando started to choke him.

Images of Franco and Cristóbal fighting on the deck came to mind. I couldn’t allow another tragedy. If Laurent and Angélica were not going to do anything other than scream, then I would. I jumped on Del Río, wrapping my arm around his neck. He turned to me, looking more confused than angry.

“Who the hell are you?”