Princess of Taurus

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?"