“Listen, it takes a while to be good at giving interviews.”

“You should have done all of them,” I said. He had given his share, but he had insisted that I be the face of the business. “I feel dumb talking about myself.”

“You can’t think of it that way. You aren’t talking about yourself. You’re letting people know that you’re involved with this great project.”

“But they dredge up parts of my life that I’m not comfortable discussing.” The difficulty was this: they felt that nothing was off limits while I, who was reserved by nature, felt that everything was. I did not wish to speak of my past—this included my mother’s murder, my father’s murder, my relatives in general, the time I’d spent at Liberty, the reason I’d been thrown out of school, the fact that my brother was in prison, the fact that my ex-boyfriend had been poisoned, and the fact that my other ex-boyfriend had been shot. “Mr. Delacroix, they want to unearth ancient history that has nothing to do with the club.”

“Ignore the questions. Discuss what you do want to discuss. That’s the secret, Anya.” “Do you think the club’s going to flop because I’m awful at interviews?”

“No. It’s too good to flop. People are going to come. I believe in this enterprise. I do.”

I wanted to run my fingers through my hair but then remembered that I had no hair. The media strategist had thought it would be a good idea if I got a new look before the launch of the club. Gone were my curls, which I was told made me look like an unkempt preteen and not like the owner of—her words—“the hottest new nightclub in NewYork City!” Instead, I had a sleek, choppy bob, chemically relaxed and flat-ironed within an inch of its life. I did not mean to sigh, but I did.

“You miss your hair, poor thing.”

“You are mocking me, Mr. Delacroix,” I said. “Anyway I’ve worn it short before. It’s only hair.” It was only hair, but I had cried after it was cut. The hairdresser had spun around the chair for the big reveal. I regarded an alien in the mirror, who looked as if it might have trouble surviving life on the hostile planet where its spaceship had crashed. I looked vulnerable, which was my least favorite way to look. Who was that girl? She certainly couldn’t be Anya Balanchine. She certainly couldn’t be me. In a display that I considered so unlike myself as to be disturbing, I had buried my shorn head in my hands and wept. How embarrassing. One wept at funerals; one did not weep over hair.

“You hate it,” the poor hairdresser had said.

“No.” I took a shuddery breath and tried to come up with an excuse for my behavior. “It’s … Well, my neck is awfully cold.”

Luckily, only the stylist had been privy to my moment of weakness.

“I forget. Girls are sensitive about their hair. When my daughter was in the hospital—” Mr. Delacroix cut himself off with an ironic nod. “And this is not a story I want to tell right now.” He

studied me. “I like the new hair. I liked the old hair, too, but the new hair is not bad.” “What an endorsement,” I said. “Not bad.”

“Now I have a silly but potentially awkward matter to run by you.” He paused. “In her infinite wisdom, the media strategist thinks it would be good for the club if you brought a date to tomorrow’s opening.”

“Other than my sister, I suppose?”

“I believe they are willing to arrange someone suitable for you if you don’t have anyone lined up.” “I suppose Win’s away at college,” I joked.

“He left last week.” “And also he hates me.”

“Yes, that,” he said. “I didn’t become New York City’s district attorney, but I did manage to squelch that little high school romance.”

“Well done, you.”

I honestly didn’t have anyone to take me. I’d been working, not dating. And I was not on good terms with my exes. “I don’t want an arranged date,” I said finally. “I was planning to take my sister and I think I’m going to stick with that.”

“Okay, Anya. I will inform the team. I told them you would say that, by the way.” Mr. Delacroix started walking to the door.

“You always did think you knew my moves.”

He came back to me. “No. I did not predict this.” He gestured around the space, which had, in the last several weeks, begun to look like a club. The floors were buffed and polished. The painted-cloud ceiling had been restored. Silvery velvet curtains covered the windows, running from the ceiling to the floor, and the walls were painted a deep chocolate brown. A mahogany bar the length of one side of the room had been added, and a bandstand, too. A red carpet would be laid out that afternoon. The only feature we lacked? Paying customers. “This is rather enormous,” he said. “Now don’t stay too late, and get a good night’s sleep if you can.”

Despite Mr. Delacroix’s instructions, that night I lay in my bed not sleeping. As was my custom, I tortured myself by listing everything that might go wrong. It was almost a relief when my cell phone rang and Jones came on the line.

“Sorry to wake you, Ms. Balanchine. There’s been some vandalism. Someone poured acid—we think it’s acid at least—over the cacao supply.”

When I arrived, Jones led me to the pantry. The entire batch of cacao had been doused in a chemical that looked like either bleach or acid. Holes were burned into the sacks, and I could see dark mud-like clumps of damp cacao.

“You shouldn’t spend too long in there,” Jones said. “There’s not much ventilation.”

My eyes were already watering. I had to think. It was not going to be an easy matter, finding two hundred and fifty pounds of raw cacao for tonight’s opening.

I was about to leave the room when I noticed a Balanchine Special Dark wrapper sitting on a shelf. Not very subtle, I thought. Of course, subtlety hadn’t been the point.

I hadn’t heard much from Fats, who was now the head of the Balanchine family. At the prelaunch party in June, he had threatened me that there would be consequences for opening the club. I guess this was what he had meant. I knew I would have to deal with him later. In the meantime, triage. I took out my phone to call my cacao supplier in Mexico.

“Anya, this hour is insanity. It is too early for me to be speaking English,” Theo said when he picked up.

“Theo, I’m in trouble.”

“I am serious as the grave when I say that I will kill for you. I am small but tough.”

“No, you ridiculous boy. I don’t need you to kill for me.” I explained what had happened. “I wanted to know if anywhere locally might have, say, two hundred and fifty pounds of cacao for tonight?”

Theo didn’t speak for several seconds. “This is a disaster. My next delivery is not supposed to arrive to you until miércoles. Nowhere in your country can you obtain such a large quantity of cacao, and even if you were able to, you could not be sure of the quality.” He yelled to his sister, “Luna, despiértate! Necesitamos un avión!”

“Un avión?” My Spanish had atrophied in the months since I had left Casa Marquez. “Wait, isn’t that a plane?”

“Yes,Anya, I am coming to you. I cannot let you start your business with subpar cacao. In Chiapas, it is now five a.m. Luna thinks I can get to New York City by afternoon. You will arrange a truck to come meet me?”

“Of course. But Theo, a cargo plane is very expensive. I can’t let you and your family absorb such a cost.”

“I have money. I am a rich chocolate baron of Mexico. I will do this for you in exchange for”—he paused to come up with a figure—“50 percent of your first week’s profits.”

“Fifty percent is kind of high, Theo. Besides, shouldn’t you have negotiated this up front? You’ve already told Luna to get the plane, no?”

“You speak the truth, Anya. How about 15 percent of your profits until I’m paid back for the cost of the plane and the fuel and the cacao?”