The Wrong Bernardi
“I was learning capitalism.”
On-screen, Javier appeared behind Mama, his hair wet like he had just showered, the top two buttons of his white shirt undone, his face far too relaxed for a twenty-five-year-old man managing Colombian operations for Grupo Cruz Meridian, our family company that Papa always called “a small business,” even though that small business had oil, shipping, mining, port logistics, energy assets, and enough lawyers to make an entire ministry lose its appetite.
“She learned from Maya,” Javier said.
I pointed my spoon at the screen. “Don’t bring my name into Saba’s crimes.”
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