He smiled, a slow, genuine thing that reached his eyes for the first time all day. With deliberate slowness, Leo picked up the contract, tore it straight down the middle, and tossed the pieces into the center of the table.
Inside the massive kitchen, the air was thick with the scent of roasted green chilis, garlic, and fresh corn tortillas. Rosa Casagrande, the matriarch, moved with a practiced rhythm that defied her seventy-five years. She didn’t need to look at the ingredients; her hands knew the proportions by heart. Casagrande
"I think," Leo said, looking at his mother, "that we have a few more seasons left in us." He smiled, a slow, genuine thing that reached
Dinner was loud. The Casagrande family didn't do quiet. Cousins argued over soccer scores, aunts gossiped about the town council, and children chased a scruffy terrier under the table. At the head of it all sat Rosa, watching her empire with a fierce, quiet pride. Rosa Casagrande, the matriarch, moved with a practiced
Leo Casagrande was currently a mile away, standing at the highest point of the north pasture. He was thirty-two, with his grandfather’s stubborn jawline and eyes that seemed to constantly search the horizon. In his hand, he crushed a dry clod of earth, watching the gray dust slip through his fingers.
"Five million," Elena whispered. "Leo, that changes everything."
