A man in a dark suit opened the car door for you. The air was thick with heat and the salt-tang of the ocean, not far off. No one spoke as you were led through a cavernous, cool entryway, across marble floors, and out through a wall of sliding glass doors.

The terrace was vast, overlooking an infinity pool that seemed to spill into the Atlantic. On a long, low lounge chair of cream-colored linen, a man waited. Anthony Roman. He didn’t stand as you approached. He simply watched, one arm draped along the back of the chair, a crystal glass of something amber held loosely in his other hand.