I smoothed the white cloth flat against my apron, lining up the hems until they matched to the millimeter.

“People who leave land sitting empty lose their rights to it,” Paola added with a short laugh.

“That’s how real business works in this city.”

“Does Alejandro know the name Varela belonged to my father?” I asked softly.

Paola laughed again, louder this time, and got up from the iron bench.

“Your father was a quiet man who fixed broken picture frames in a dusty workshop,” Paola said.

“Don’t pretend his family owned commercial real estate on Avenida Hidalgo.”