The Blueprint

This marble is incorrect.

I tapped the stylus against the digital rendering on the massive screen in Conference Room B. The room smelled of fresh espresso and aggressive ambition.

"It’s not incorrect, Max. It’s... value-engineered."

I turned. Catalina was sitting at the head of the mahogany table. She wasn't just my wife; she was the CEO. The "Sterling" came first—her father’s name, her family’s money, her board of directors. The "DeLuca" was me. The talent. The hands.

She looked impeccable in a cream-colored power suit that cost more than my first car. She was typing on her phone, barely glancing at the architectural plans I had spent three months refining for the Hotel San Nicolás project.

"Cata," I said, trying to keep my voice even. "I specified Carrara marble for the lobby floors. The purchase order Tony forwarded me shows a supplier in Shenzhen. Shenzhen. That’s not Italian marble. That’s composite."

Cata finally looked up. Her eyes were sharp, calculating. She set her phone down face down—a habit she had whenever she was hiding something.

"The Moretti brothers want the aesthetic, Max. They don't care about the geology. Composite is durable. It’s cost-effective. And it allows us to allocate more budget to the... administrative costs."

"Administrative costs?" I frowned. "You mean the bribes?"

"We call them facilitation fees, darling," she corrected smoothly. "Doing business in the Caribbean requires a certain flexibility. Minister Castillo has been very helpful with the permits for the historic district. He has expensive taste."

I looked back at the screen. The rendering showed a beautiful, light-filled colonial courtyard. I had designed it to honor the history of Santo Domingo—local limestone, open arches, mahogany beams.

But every time I submitted a spec, Cata changed it. Limestone became concrete. Mahogany became veneer. And now, marble became plastic.

"It's a lie," I muttered. "We're building a fake."

"We are building a brand," Cata snapped. She stood up, walking over to me. She placed a hand on my shoulder. It felt heavy.

"Max, look at me."

I looked.

"You are the artist. You make it look beautiful. I am the business. I make it profitable. That is the deal. Remember?"

The deal.

I flashed back to the day I signed the partnership agreement. I was twenty-two, numb with grief. She had put the pen in my hand. “I will handle the chaos,” she had said. “You just draw.”

"I remember," I said.

"Good." She patted my cheek. "Now, pack your bags. We leave tomorrow morning. Giovanni wants the full Sterling-DeLuca experience. He wants to see the genius architect walking the site."

She checked her watch. "I have a call with the bank in Zurich. Finish the renders. And make the marble look shinier."

She walked out, her heels clicking a sharp, rhythmic tattoo on the floor.

I stood alone in the conference room. I felt the familiar tightening in my chest—the air getting thin.

"Yo, Patrón."

The door slid open. Tony walked in.

My cousin Tony was the glitch in the Sterling-DeLuca matrix. He was the Head of IT, mostly because he was the only one who could keep the servers running without crashing, but he dressed like he was on his way to a Bad Bunny concert. Today, he was wearing a hoodie that said “CERO CHANCE” and eating a bagel.

"You okay?" Tony asked, hopping up to sit on the expensive conference table. "You look like you need a drink. Or an exorcism."

"Just a meeting with the boss," I said, rubbing my temples.

"The Dragon Lady?" Tony took a bite of his bagel. "I saw the email chain about the marble. Shenzhen Composite, huh? Classy. What’s the markup on that? Like, 400%?"

"Don't ask, Tony."

"I'm just saying," Tony lowered his voice, glancing at the door. "I see the traffic on the server, Max. She’s moving a lot of money around. 'Consulting fees' to accounts in the Caymans. 'Permit expediting' to some guy named Castillo. It’s... messy."

I looked at him sharply. "Tony, be careful. If she catches you looking at the financials—"

"I know, I know. I’m just the IT guy." He hopped off the table. "But listen. I checked the flight manifest. She booked us into the Casas del XVI. Fancy stuff. But she also booked a separate meeting room at the hotel for a 'private consultation' with Castillo on Wednesday. Just her and Minister Castillo."

"She handles the politics," I said, repeating the company line.

"Sure," Tony shrugged. "Politics. Anyway, I’m coming with you."

I blinked. "You are?"

"Hell yes, I'm going. I need a tan, and I have about six weeks of accumulated vacation time. Besides, if I don't go, who's going to keep you out of trouble over there?"

He clapped me on the shoulder.

"Loosen up, primo. We’re going to the DR. Plátano power. Rum. Sun. Maybe you’ll finally remember what it feels like to have a pulse."

I forced a smile. "I have a pulse, Tony."

"Barely," he grinned. "See you at the airport. 5:00 AM. Don't be late."

Tony strolled out, whistling.

I turned back to the screen. I looked at the fake marble floor I was designing.

I zoomed in on the rendering. I erased the texture of the composite. I replaced it with the deep, chaotic veins of real Carrara marble.

It wouldn't be built that way. But at least on the screen, in my private file, it was real.

I saved the file under a new name: Project_Prison.dwg.

I shut down the computer. The screen went black, reflecting my face again.

Tomorrow, I was going to Santo Domingo. Cata saw it as a business trip. Tony saw it as a vacation.

I had a feeling it was going to be an escape attempt.