“Worse.”

“I can’t imagine.”

“No, you can’t. You have no idea how fortunate you are to be born in this time, in this place. Without freedom, you have nothing.”

“And what would you tell a man with only a few minutes of freedom left?”

“To run,” I reply, my tone wry.

A ghost of a smile crosses his face, but it’s obvious he isn’t buying what I’m selling, and I like him better for it, for seeing past the facade.

“To savor the last few minutes he has,” I answer instead.

I want to ask his name, but pride holds me back—pride and fear.

Such luxuries have no place in my life at the moment.

I blink, only to be greeted by an outstretched palm, waiting for mine to join it.

“Dance with me.”

I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. I cock my head to the side, studying him, pretending my heart isn’t thundering in my chest, that my hand isn’t itching to take his.

“Now why does that feel more like a challenge than an invitation?”

The music is a faint hum in the background of the evening, the notes drifting out onto the empty balcony.

“Will you dance with me, Beatriz Perez, kisser-of-revolutionaries and thief-of-hearts?”

He’s too smooth by half, and I like him far too much for it.

I shake my head, a smile playing at my lips. “I didn’t say anything about stealing hearts.”

He counters my smile with a spectacular one of his own, the full wattage hitting me. “No, I did.”

Do I really even stand a chance?

He steps forward, obliterating the space between us once more, his cologne filling my nostrils, my eyes level with the snowy white front of his shirt. His hand comes to rest on my waist, the heat from his palm warming me through the thin fabric of my dress. He takes my hand with his free one, our fingers entwined.

My heart turns over in my chest as I follow his lead. Unsurprisingly, he’s a natural, confident dancer.

We don’t speak, but then again, considering the conversation between our bodies—the rustle of fabric, brushing of limbs, fleeting touches that imprint themselves upon my skin—words seem superfluous and far less intimate.

The thing about collecting marriage proposals is that people assume you’re a flirt, and perhaps I was, once, long ago, but now it feels unnatural to play the coquette. I am somewhere between the girl I was and the woman I want to be.

The song ends, another beginning with far too much speed, the dance both stretching for eternity and ending with a blink. He releases me with a subtle heave of his shoulders, the cool air between us, my fingers missing the twine of his, the shock of his absence surprisingly sharp.

I gaze into his eyes, steeling myself against the onslaught of flirtation likely to follow, the invitation to lunch or dinner, the compliments about my dancing, the heat in his gaze. I have no use for romantic entanglements at the moment, even as I imagine I would very much like to be temporarily entangled with this man.

He smiles. “Thank you for the dance.”

I watch him walk away, secure in the knowledge that he will turn around and look back at me.

He doesn’t.

Surprise fills me as he disappears back into the ballroom, into the world where he clearly belongs. Minutes pass before I’m ready to return to the ballroom, to the glittering chandeliers, the harsh glint of the other guests.

I walk through the balcony doorway. Isabel stands to the side; Elisa is nowhere to be seen.

“She went home. She wasn’t feeling well,” Isabel answers when I ask about our sister’s whereabouts.

A waiter approaches us, a tray of champagne flutes in hand, more waiters around the ballroom offering the same to other guests, a murmur resounding through the party, whispers tucked behind cupped hands, names on everyone’s lips, the calm before a scandal breaks.

Curious as to the piece of gossip they’ve all seized upon, I scan the crowd, looking for Golden Boy, searching for—

He stands next to the orchestra near the front of the room with an older couple and a woman.

Oh.

Oh.

There’s no point in dissecting her flaws, for I fear it would be a useless endeavor and do me no favors. It’s clear as could be her family did hail on a great big ship at this nation’s founding; she’s stunning with her blond hair and delicate features, the perfect complement to his golden looks. Her gown is the height of fashion, her jewels certainly not paste, her lips curved in a pretty smile.

Who could blame her for smiling?

I join the rest of the ballroom in lifting my champagne flute and toasting the happy couple, as the bride-to-be’s father announces his daughter’s engagement to one Nicholas Randolph Preston III. He is not just a Preston; he is the Preston. The sitting U.S. senator rumored to have aspirations of reaching the White House one day.

Our gazes meet across the ballroom.

How could I not see this a mile away? In the end, life always comes down to timing.

It’s New Year’s Eve, 1958, and your world is parties and shopping trips; it’s New Year’s Day, 1959, and it’s soldiers, and guns, and death.

You meet a man on a balcony, and for a moment, you forget yourself, only to be reminded once again how mercurial fate can be.

I drain the glass of champagne in one unladylike gulp.

And then I see him—the one I came for—and nothing else matters anymore.

Unlike Nicholas Preston, this man is short and stout, his hair balding at the top, his nose more suited to a larger face. He wears his tuxedo like it’s strangling him. Through the research I’ve done, I’ve learned he’s invited to these parties for one reason: his wife is the darling of the charity circuit, her maiden name whispered with reverence throughout the ballroom. He clearly prefers the comfort of the shadows, every inch of him reinforcing the intelligence I’ve received: he’s a man unafraid to roll up his sleeves and dirty his hands, who enjoys moving world leaders around like they are pieces on a chessboard.

His last name is Dwyer and he’s the CIA’s man on Latin America.

I lied before when Nicholas Randolph Preston III—soon-to-be-married U.S. senator—asked me about freedom. I would savor it—for a moment.

And then I’d fight like hell to ensure it was never, ever taken away from me again.

As nice as moonlit dances with princes are, I came here with more important business at hand. I came to meet the man who is going to help me avenge my brother Alejandro’s death and kill Fidel Castro.

chapter two

Same balcony. Different man. Same assessing gaze, except this time there isn’t a glimmer of admiration or a spark of attraction. And there’s certainly no dancing, even if the music lingers in the background.

“It appears we have a common enemy,” says Mr. Dwyer. His rough-hewn features are arranged in a careful mask; his gaze lingers on my face, my body. He is every inch the spymaster in his perusal: unflinching, thorough, opportunistic.

The CIA’s role in Latin America has been bloody and brutal, whispers of their involvement in places like Guatemala reaching the circles in which I now travel thanks to the mantle my brother has passed on to me after his death.

“We do,” I acknowledge.

“And you think you can do something about him?”

Dwyer removes a slim cigarette from a gold case; the flame from a matching engraved lighter sends the paper crackling. The first puff of smoke makes its way into the air, the heady scent of tobacco filling the balcony, mixing with the perfume I dabbed at my pulse points.

“I do.”

Maybe it’s strange that at twenty-two and female, I am standing on this balcony rather than someone like my father, someone who has spent his life accumulating power and influence, but the very nature of my age and gender makes me an attractive weapon. For this to work, they need someone who can get close to Fidel, someone he will not view as a threat, who can draw his interest. After all, who is more easily discounted than a woman, and a debutante at that? Fidel has many vices, and it is well known his Achilles’ heel is feminine beauty.

“You were involved with the rebels in Havana.” Dwyer’s stare is flinty and faintly disapproving. The CIA’s relationship with former Cuban president Batista was a complicated one to say the least; I and others like me caused them their fair share of problems over the years.

War makes for strange bedfellows.

“I was.”

“Because of your brother?”

Perhaps he means to catch me off guard with these details of my life he’s gleaned, but I’m hardly surprised they know about Alejandro’s involvement in the revolution or about his death. The Americans have meddled in Cuba’s affairs for a very long time, their machinations pulling the strings for Batista and others like him.

“In the beginning,” I answer, my tone considerably cooler.