After devouring the dessert, Aquilino guided me toward the parlor, pointed at a stiff velvet couch, and sat across from me. He picked up the cigar box and offered me one. I hesitated. I’d always been curious about this mysterious male habit, but I wasn’t sure I could deliver a proper exhalation. Cristóbal sometimes produced immaculate, blue circles, a source of ultimate pride for him.

At my hesitation, Aquilino’s bushy eyebrows arched. Smoking was a sign of a true man, and I must pass the test. I glanced at the Great Dane by the entrance—even he seemed to be waiting for my reaction. I took a thick cigar between my fingers, mimicking Aquilino’s resolve as he tightened his lips around it, and lit it.

The first inhalation hit my chest like a flame. Aquilino gave me the sort of look one might reserve for a curious insect as I coughed incessantly and hit my chest with my hand a few times, attempting to free the inferno from my body.

“You don’t smoke, Mr. Balboa?”

“Only pipe,” I gasped. “In my country, the tobacco is more pure.” Whatever that meant. I’d heard men speak about the quality of tobacco and its purity, but to me, all of them stank in the same way.

Aquilino lit his own cigar. He had no problems inhaling or exhaling.

“I must ask you, sir,” he said, his voice carrying the same solemn tone of a priest. “What are your plans now that your wife, que en paz descanse, is no longer with us?”

I had to tread carefully. I couldn’t come across as a threat to anyone.

“I will probably return to Spain. I have no interest in either the country or the cacao business. To be quite honest, this was my wife’s dream—not mine.” The burn in my throat had given my voice a natural coarseness that I decided to use to my advantage. “I must ask you, Señor Aquilino, are there any other heirs?”

“Just two. Don Armand had two daughters in Vinces: Angélica and Catalina de Lafont.”

Two sisters.