You can feel her curiosity turning into something deeper: respect with roots.
Raimundo turns to her, voice quieter.
“Want to keep dancing?” he asks.
Helena smiles slightly. “If you still want to,” she replies.
Raimundo’s mouth twitches. “Now I do.”
They return to the floor.
The band hesitates, then leans into the rhythm again, but it’s different now.
The forró doesn’t feel like entertainment.
It feels like a test.
People watch you dance like you’re an unexpected headline.
Some women stare at Helena with envy.
Some men stare at Raimundo with sudden admiration that smells suspiciously like greed.
And Raimundo dances without performing.
He keeps his steps clean, respectful, steady.
Helena relaxes under his hand like she’s been waiting to be held by someone who doesn’t treat her like a trophy.
But the story doesn’t end with a dance.
It never does.
Because humiliation doesn’t just vanish.
It turns into retaliation.
Near the bar, Topete’s father, a man named Arnaldo Braga, stands up from the VIP table.
You recognize him as the local politician who loves microphones and hates accountability.
He strides toward the dance floor, face red, suit too tight with ego.
“So you’re the owner,” Arnaldo says loudly, making sure everyone hears.
His voice is coated with fake respect, but his eyes are pure challenge.
“Interesting. We’ve done business with this place for years.”
Raimundo stops dancing.
Helena’s eyes narrow.
Arnaldo smiles like he’s cornered you.
“If you’re really the owner,” he says, “then you’ll understand that some people don’t belong in certain spaces.”
He nods toward Raimundo’s boots, the old hat.
The room holds its breath again.
Because Arnaldo is trying to take the power back, to re-claim the narrative: poor-looking equals lesser.
Raimundo tilts his head.
“And which spaces are those?” he asks calmly.
Arnaldo gestures around the hall like he’s defining civilization.
“Here,” he says.
“This is for people who contribute.”
Then he smirks. “Not for… ranch hands.”
Helena’s hand tightens on Raimundo’s arm.
But Raimundo doesn’t flinch.
He looks at Arnaldo like he’s studying a bad contract.
“You want to talk about contribution?” Raimundo asks softly.
Arnaldo chuckles. “Sure.”
Raimundo nods.
“Okay,” he says.
Then he turns to Djalma. “Bring me the binder,” he orders.
Djalma hurries toward the office.
The band keeps playing quietly, confused, like they’ve been hired for music but ended up scoring a courtroom.
Arnaldo scoffs.
“Oh, what’s this? A dramatic reveal?”
Raimundo’s eyes stay steady.
“Not dramatic,” he says.
“Accurate.”
Djalma returns carrying a thick binder.
Raimundo opens it and flips pages with the calm of someone who’s done this before.
He points to a page and looks at Arnaldo.
“Do you recognize your signature?” he asks.
Arnaldo’s smile tightens.
Raimundo continues.
“Last year,” he says, “you held an event here and promised payment within thirty days.”
He taps the paper. “It’s been eleven months.”
A ripple spreads through the room.
People glance at each other, because nothing entertains faster than a bully being audited.
Arnaldo waves a hand.
“Minor delay,” he says quickly.
Raimundo nods.
