By the late 1950s, the world was desperate for the glitz of Bollinger, and nowhere was that hunger more apparent than in Havana, Cuba. It was the playground of the elite, a city of rum, revolution, and relentless sun. But when Lily Bollinger stepped off the plane, she wasn’t looking for a vacation. She was looking for the truth about how her wine was being treated on the other side of the Atlantic. What she found in the humid shadows of the Havana docks was a direct assault on the integrity of her house.

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