balance, that woman is definitely Monalisa. In addition to being my closest cousins, Max and Monalisa are directors of the Santini Family Tomato Sauces. He's in marketing, she's in finance. I was given the position of CEO. Cláudio Santini handed the family legacy over to me as a kind of gift for my thirtieth birthday.

It wasn't a big surprise, nor was it given to me on a silver platter. As the oldest of all my cousins, I had known for a long time that the red empire built by my grandfather would one day be passed on to me, so I studied and worked hard to take on the role with responsibility. With tears in his eyes, Dad hugged me tightly and told me how much he trusted my work and how sure he was that I would honor the family name. Having been in charge for three years, I believe I am doing well, but Monalisa never seems to be happy with the direction I am taking the company and meddles in areas beyond her competence. Like she will do now. "We need to increase profits," she begins. "The competition is gaining ground. If we are not careful, we will lose a large share of the market and..." And he continues talking, painting a catastrophic perspective as if we were on the verge of bankruptcy. I chew the rest of the tiramisu in a failed attempt to sweeten his words. I glance sideways at Max, who moves his mouth like a ventriloquist in a crude imitation of his sister as he raises his hand to the wine glass. The other family members pay attention to her, without even blinking.

"And because of that, I suggest hiring a consultant." Max gasps and chokes on his drink. My father slaps him hard on the back, receiving a tearful look of gratitude in return. Everyone at the now silent table turns to look at me. "We're doing very well following our grandfather's precepts," I retort. "But we can do better!" Monalisa insists, and everyone's faces turn to look at her. "Not to mention how useful it will be if we need investment later on." "We don't need investment either," I say, placing the empty plate on the edge of the sink and crossing my arms. Monalisa takes a deep breath and I already suspect which part of our business the consultant would interfere with: the cultivation method and the costs of employees. Grandpa Francesco had only two goals when he left Italy with his pockets full of tomato seeds and came to Brazil in the 1950s: to get married and to become a farmer. He spent a short time in São Paulo, where he met Grandma Antonella, a young daughter of immigrants who also worked there. His first goal was accomplished, but the second was still to come. Together, they set off for the Midwest, bought a piece of land in Cristalina, and started planting tomatoes. The first harvest was good, the second was just as good, and in the third, Grandma put her culinary talent to use. Instead of selling the product in its natural state, they started selling tomato sauce with the promise of bringing a little of the best flavor of Italy to the Sunday lunch table.

It worked out so well that they soon built a factory on the outskirts of Goiânia, and began to divide their time between it and the farm. Even today, we grow the fruit with the same care my grandfather did: with low use of pesticides and extra workers per hectare to take greater care of the tomatoes. Our partner producers handle the plantation in the same way, generating higher costs, but also ensuring the unique flavor of our sauces. He always said that the main recipe was care, and I can only agree. The recipe and the promise of family reunion are what make our tomato sauce so good, and I'm not willing to change a thing. I glance at my father, who is watching me carefully. My decision could directly affect him, the current person in charge of the Florescer do Cerrado farm. "I already have someone in mind," Monalisa continues, taking advantage of my silence. "Who?"

I ask. "Alanna Medeiros. Maybe you remember her. She was my best friend in my first year of high school. Now she works at an excellent consulting firm." I'm surprised to see how Monalisa's hard voice takes on a nostalgic tone when she mentions her friend, but I don't remember any Alanna Medeiros. Judging by Max's confused expression, he doesn't either. Monalisa snorts. "You guys have terrible memories... She even spent a few vacations here on the farm, before moving back to São Paulo!" "I remember her!" my mother says. "You two were inseparable!" "And what would a São Paulo native know about tomatoes and farms?" Max sneers. His sister's soft expression changes instantly. "A company is a company, you stupid stronzo!" - Hey, don't call me a wimp! - Max protests. - Still, I don't see the need. We're doing great and we don't need to change anything. - I insist. Monalisa's furious gaze turns to me. - Since we're doing so well, what's the problem with listening to what she has to say?

- Monalisa insists. My mother, uncles and aunts look at me again, eager to hear the answer. Even Grandma pays attention, her little eyes attentive, fixed on my face. But no one looks at me more seriously than my father. He's not going to give his opinion. As soon as the baton was passed, Claudio Santini made it very clear that the responsibility for decisions fell solely on me. Monalisa waits. I let out a long sigh and, reluctantly, nod in confirmation.

- Let her come, then. Monalisa only needs to vibrate with excitement and a voice tells me, very quietly, how maybe there's something there that I'm not seeing yet. I ignore her, taking another piece of tiramisu from the bowl on the table, unable to remember who Alanna Medeiros is. Monday morning, the office is buzzing with work, but I still listen patiently as my partner and best friend talks about going to meet her boyfriend in Rio de Janeiro. We always take a few minutes to catch up on the weekend gossip, but this time I'm in disbelief. "I can't believe you're going to fall for his lies again," I begin. She rolls her eyes. "He said he needs to talk!" Camila retorts, exasperated, watching me from across the table. "Wouldn't you accept a request like that?" "No! If he wants to talk so much, he should come here!" Camila can't resist and bursts out laughing, her curls shaking harmoniously as she laughs. I frown and playfully push her away. She pushes me back and I almost spill my glass of water all over the table. - Sorry, friend, but it would be better to have this conversation in an apartment in front of Copacabana beach.

- she says, pouting. - And it will be the last time I go there to talk. I will make it very clear that either our relationship moves forward or the line moves forward. - That's it! - I celebrate, raising my glass. She takes the coffee cup and we make a playful toast. I can't help but laugh a little. It's easy to be happy around Camila and sometimes I wonder what made her become my friend. From the moment we met, in the first week of the Business Administration course, I realized how different we were. Maybe this difference completes us. I was closed off and introverted, she was all friendly and outgoing. We spent days together, sitting side by side in class until she asked me for help with a explanation about finances. That was enough to make us never separate again. We worked together after we graduated, and when Camila wanted to take things a step further, she didn't hesitate to invite me to be her partner at Sileo Consultoria e Reestruturação. Since then, like a good dynamic duo, we've been combing through companies of all kinds, looking for flaws and proposing solutions for improvements in order to make more profit. We always go out together, have drinks, complain about scoundrels and share tubs of ice cream while