After the incident in the plaza, Francisco and Catalina stopped going into Bogotá. They felt too uneasy; instead they spent most of their time at home reading and practicing German as their trip to the Old Continent approached. One afternoon, while they were playing with Isabella, a servant knocked and announced,
"Young master, a letter."
Francisco raised an eyebrow and took it. The note contained instructions: where and when to meet some smugglers. The location looked like a restaurant, and the message insisted he come alone — an impossibility.
"Prepare the servants and bring me a pistol. I won't risk my life," Francisco told the servant.
"Should we speak with Master Carlos?" the man asked cautiously.
Francisco thought for a beat. "Yes. Ask him. But I'll go myself."
"Very well, young master."
Catalina, watching him from the corner as she handed Isabella a doll, saw the look on his face and slipped beside him. "What's wrong? You look suspicious."
"It's a letter from the liberals," Francisco said. "Oscar's not in Bogotá anymore. They want me to meet the smugglers — alone."
"Maybe they're nervous. You are the son of a known royalist; even if your father fought the viceroy, that doesn't change how they see him," Catalina said after a moment.
Francisco hesitated.
"You're not thinking of going alone, are you?" Catalina exclaimed.
"I don't know." He frowned.
"Absolutely not. If this is only about immigrants, we can find other ways. But if you go alone and something happens, the whole family — our dreams included — could be lost." Catalina's voice shook with anger and fear.
Francisco swallowed and nodded. "You're right. I'll speak with Father. We'll have servants posted around the restaurant, and I'll take a pistol. If anything happens, they'll come in when they hear gunfire."
"That's still risky," Catalina said.
"No smuggler will meet me if I arrive flanked by soldiers," Francisco said. "They deal in illegal goods; they won't want that. Besides, I'm not important enough to be killed — I'm the heir, not the patriarch."
"You're an idiot," Catalina snapped, fury in her eyes. "Do you understand what rediscovering Roman cement means?"
Francisco flinched. Roman cement — for now a monopoly — could cut construction times from months to weeks. Its value was immense: even conservatively, the industry could be worth hundreds of thousands of pesos in New Granada. Considering volcanic ash supplies and the local monopoly, only a few regions might replicate it. The fortune at stake could tempt anyone, even the viceroy.
"Now you understand," Catalina continued, softer but fierce. "You might think you're just a merchant's son who can live quietly in Antioquía, but since you rediscovered Roman cement, the elites see you differently. You can't act like nothing will ever threaten you."
"You're right. Immigrants aren't worth risking everything for." Francisco's face hardened. "I'll take two armed servants with me into the meeting and station the rest outside the restaurant."
Catalina sighed. "Good."
Francisco told his father about the letter, and they sent ten armed men with him to the restaurant. They carried pistols only — marching in with muskets would have alarmed the city and sparked rumors of rebellion. When they entered the restaurant, a man stood near the door.
"Young Gómez, didn't the letter say you were to come alone?" he asked, ready to bolt if anything went wrong.
"Sorry," Francisco said coldly. "My wife convinced me it was too risky to come by myself."
The man hesitated. "Okay, but your men must wait outside the private room."
"Eight can wait outside. Two will accompany me," Francisco replied. "I've already compromised enough."
The man whispered to someone, then led Francisco up a dim staircase. At the back of the private room, two men dressed in black stood like sentries. The balcony door was obvious — a planned escape route for anyone with ill intent. Five men sat inside, each flanked by two armed guards: factions within a tense truce.
Francisco introduced himself. "Francisco Gómez of the Gómez house. Forgive the change of terms: my wife persuaded me not to come alone."
A burly man sneered. "How valuable do you think you are to be so cautious?"
A thin, bookish man corrected him: "You'd be a fool not to know the Gómez name. This young man rediscovered an ancient material. Even if the industry is small now, it could be worth thousands — perhaps millions — in a few years. If I were him, I'd bring fifty men."
Silence fell. Millions of pesos were astronomical in their trade; the smugglers' yearly profits rarely approached that number.
"How can a material be so lucrative?" asked a scarred man.
"It speeds construction from months to weeks, and he controls a crucial supply," the bookish man explained.
"So the south's just as rotten as the north," the scarred man muttered.
The burly man grinned. "So that's why you insisted on this meeting. Let's talk business."
Francisco's answer was icily blunt. "I don't like you. You're not my partner. Leave."
The burly man's face twisted. "Boy, your two servants aren't as skillful as my men. Say the wrong thing and I'll shoot you. Your money is nothing compared to my weapons." He nodded, and his two guards raised their pistols toward Francisco.
Francisco's own servants mirrored them instantly.
Francisco chuckled. "Of course I know these two aren't elite enough to handle you."
The burly man sneered. "So you're counting on your men downstairs? By the time we shoot and flee, they won't reach this room."
Francisco smiled coldly. "Fine. Ten thousand pesos for the man who brings me his head." He gestured toward the burly man.
At once, several smugglers turned their guns on him. The burly man's confidence cracked; fear crept into his voice. "You traitors!"
The air was thick with tension — one wrong move and blood would spill.
Then the bookish man lifted his hands, voice calm but firm. "Everyone, stop! Ramiro, it's better if you leave. This young man doesn't want to deal with you, but I'm sure he's magnanimous enough to let you walk away if you do so now." He glanced at Francisco, seeking a sign of agreement.
Francisco's gaze was cold but steady. "Fine. Let him go. But I don't want to see him again."
Ramiro—his face pale with fury—backed toward the door, keeping his pistol up. "Remember this, kid. This isn't over." He signaled his men and stormed out of the restaurant.
Silence settled again. The bookish man exhaled slowly, then turned back with a faint smile.
"Now that the nuisance is gone," Francisco said, folding his hands with calculated calm, "shall we talk business?