Back in his hotel suite, Pierre showered and changed before collapsing into the soft spring mattress.
It was one of those indulgent hotel beds — the kind that seemed to swallow you whole.
He let his mind go slack, his nerves relax, and fell into a deep, undisturbed sleep.
By the time he woke again, sunlight from the Caribbean had poured across the room in soft golden sheets.
He turned his head toward the window, caught sight of the sparkling sea, and let a slight smile curl his lips.
"All right then," he murmured.
"Let's see what today brings."
An hour later, at the hotel's open-air café, Pierre sat across from Envoy Dujun and another guest — Song Chengjun — and said nothing.
He sipped his coffee in silence as the two men waited.
"Mr. Pierre," he said, "I understand that this situation must be difficult for you. But as it stands, the Americans are leveraging their control of shipping to force us Chinese/French-Cuban merchants to sell sugar at grossly unfair prices."
"If we yield now," he added gravely,
"we'll forever be at their mercy. For the sake of the hundreds of thousands of our compatriots here, I ask you — extend us a hand."
He paused, then continued more formally:
"They offered to buy our sugar at 15 cents per kilogram.
But if you're willing to take it, Mr. Pierre — I, for one, am prepared to sell it to you for 13 cents per kilo, no matter how much you can handle."
Thirteen cents per kilo.
That's about 6 cents per pound.
At official U.S. market rates, that was nearly tenfold profit.
At black market rates — nearly twentyfold.
Pierre couldn't help but recall an old saying from a certain industrialist...
He couldn't remember the quote exactly, but 20x returns?
That was beyond criminal profit
Of course, the U.S. market was enormous.
He couldn't hope to dominate it — but even claiming a fraction would leave him wealthy beyond imagination.
Still, he remained quiet.
He lifted his cup, sipped slowly, and stared evenly at Song.
Envoy Li opened his mouth, hesitated, then fell silent.
After all, they'd just met — he had no standing to pressure him.
He took a different approach.
"This isn't about personal gain," he said gently.
"It's about helping our compatriots. A shared bond of blood and heritage.
If you can assist, you should."
"Uncle Pierre, I understand."
Then he turned his attention to Song and spoke clearly:
"Tell me, Mr. Song — if the Americans are offering 15 cents per kilo,
why are you offering it to me for 13?"
"Because, Mr. Pierre," Song said without hesitation,
"you're one of us. Why should outsiders profit off our backs?"
"I realize you may not believe that. But the truth is, I refuse to give in to American bullying. If we let them dictate prices today, then in ten or twenty years, Chinese and French merchants in Cuba will never have a future."
"I'd rather sell at a loss to you than sell cheaply to them."
He continued, his voice growing stronger:
"Our families came here as laborers.
In just under a century, we've gone from coolies to small shopkeepers to merchants.
We've clawed our way upward — every inch."
"If we miss this chance, we're done.
We'll always be second-class traders, begging at someone else's door."
"For the future of business — I would sell at 13 cents, I'd sell at 10 cents. Even if it's a loss, I'll take the loss. Because one day, I want our people to have a seat at the table in the sugar trade."
He finished speaking and exhaled deeply.
Was it for himself? Or for the uncertain future of the merchants he represented?
In that moment, he understood something profound.
This — this grit, this unyielding drive to rise — was what had allowed overseas communities to flourish across Southeast Asia.
From Indochina to Malaya, from the East Indies to the Philippines — where opportunity presented itself, they seized it.
It wasn't about one man becoming rich.
It was about the rise of a people.
Helping them... also meant helping himself.
He nodded slowly, then spoke.
"In that case, why would I pay 13 cents a kilo..."
"I told you, Father! Men like him can't be trusted!"
A pair of long legs stepped into view.
Pierre looked up and saw a tall young woman striding toward them — elegant, furious.
Her eyes, sharp with anger, locked onto him.
"Foreign devils are bad enough — but traitors are worse," she said coldly.
"You're just here to profit while the Americans oppress us.
You think this is your chance to grab it all?"
Mixed race, unmistakably.
There was something familiar about her face... maybe from a film?
But she was tall — easily 175 cm or more.
Pierre frowned slightly, about to respond, when Song turned sharply toward her.
"Bing'er! Who told you to speak?"
"He's what?" Pierre interrupted, raising an eyebrow.
"Trying to profit from crisis?"
"That's what businessmen do, Miss.
If I wasn't profiting from the crisis, I'd be in the wrong business."
The girl's eyes went wide.
She had never encountered someone this... shameless.
He didn't even bother to pretend.
But Pierre was calm — unbothered.
He turned back to Song.
There was a pause. Then Song finally managed to say,
"In business... we speak of profit."
"Indeed," Pierre said with a smile.
"But even businessmen must draw a line.
We speak of profit, yes...
But some profits are better left untouched."
Before anyone could reply, he added:
At that, the girl blinked.
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