of danger and poison for the heir to the traditional family of cattle ranchers from the Midwest. Arnaldo got out of the elevator and found himself in the second floor hallway. He was not authorized to participate in the meeting between the executive and representatives of the Sacramento medium-sized cattle ranchers association. However, Maria Rita, the executive's assistant, managed to include him in a tour that Pedro Alacrán and the others would take at the farm to see the facilities of the artificial insemination center.

Deep down, the journalist knew it was a marketing maneuver, given that the eldest son of the owner of it all was the director responsible for the biotechnology sector. He settled into one of the chairs arranged against the wall of the long hallway, interspersed with the green plants in huge pots. He took a notepad from the shoulder bag he wore across his chest, crossed his legs, chewed his gum twice and tried to control his nervousness mixed with anxiety. He would much rather cover the extramarital affairs of farmers' wives. The buzz in the corridor warned him of the arrival of the beelzebub from the cerrado. He stood up from his chair when he saw the CEO arrive followed by his assistant and an older man, who he recognized as the head of the genetics laboratory. He understood the reason for his own nervousness. Pedro Alacrán was a legitimate underwear wetter. Arnaldo felt every inch of his body manifest. The pores dilated, the glands produced more sweat and more hormones, the hair on the back of his neck stood up, a shiver ran down his spine and a flutter in his stomach left him on alert. Tall, almost 1.90m tall with a slender frame, the gunmetal gray blazer fit his body with a perfect fit, giving him lightness and elegance, combining with the turquoise blue shirt and beige Stetson hat. His eyes were protected by sunglasses, a sports model from Ray-Ban, and Arnaldo knew they were green, an emerald green. The most cynical and sarcastic look that he had never had the pleasure of being the target of, but that he had already seen in action in the photographs published in the newspaper, in agribusiness magazines and in celebrity magazines, since the young man only dated women of the social level of his peers. Alacran. His chin was firm, masculine, a dimple gave him a sexy look. His jaw was clean-shaven, he had a clean face, like an urban man and not like most of the cowboys in Sacramento, who had a more rustic, unshaven appearance. I couldn't consider him as a wild and rude man, he was more like who he really was: an agribusiness CEO who dressed like a Dallas farmer, who paraded around the interior of Brazil with his very expensive Rolex hanging from his wrist, his pickup truck luxury, the jet chartered for his trips around the country and abroad, his Stetson collection, leather boots, race horses and, it was said, that he also owned a luxurious yacht that cost him 45 million reais . Information that would soon be confirmed by Pedro himself. He extended his hand when he saw him approaching, but his gesture and his person were ignored. The assistant, flanking the boss, gave him a friendly smile and stopped to greet him. - How are you, Mr. Freitas? Did you bring your photographer? - I am very well and grateful for the opportunity to get to know the famous Pedro Alacrán more closely. - he noticed the hint of a mischievous smile on the assistant's painted lips and continued: - And, yes, the newspaper photographer will arrive at the scheduled time for the tour of the farm. - Great, feel free and... - Maria Rita. She was interrupted by the boss's deep and low voice. They both turned and found him without his sunglasses, the brim of his hat slightly lowered showing part of his serious eyes, his jaws set and his lips drawn in a rictus of annoyance. He seemed impatient. - Well, I'm sorry, please. I'll open the door for Mr. Alacrán. - he said, a little awkwardly and, already walking away, added jovially over his shoulder: - If you need anything, printed material about our facilities or about the history of Grupo Fazenda Alacrán, just ask me. I am at your complete disposal, Mr. Freitas. She was a lovely young woman who looked 25, 26 years old. She was wearing a blouse and a knee-length skirt, discreet, high heels. The well-combed hair, little makeup, the restrained style one would expect from an executive assistant. But all his attention soon shifted to the young CEO, heir to an empire that encompassed thousands of hectares, heads of cattle and the biotechnology company. You could see in his physical posture, his straight back, his raised chin, the air of superiority that he knew his place in the world and that it wasn't among the poor mortals who weren't born under the sign of Scorpio's wealth. At no point did Pedro Alacrán pay attention to him before entering the meeting room and not closing the door behind him, as it was his assistant who did this for him. *** - Fazenda Alacrán offers breeding bulls that will