I began copying the exact filing numbers of my father’s estate onto a small index card.

I tucked the index card deep into the lining of my leather tote bag before slipping my feet into plain black flats.

By one o’clock the next afternoon, four senior business associates sat around the dark mahogany dining table in Zapopan, their crystal water glasses catching the bright afternoon light.

Doña Victoria stood by the carved sideboard, holding a folded white cotton apron out to me.

“Put this on, Elena,” she said, her voice easily reaching every corner of the room.