The Landing

The moment the wheels of the private jet touched the tarmac, the cabin erupted in polite applause. Not from us—Cata would never clap for a pilot doing their job—but from the staff in the galley. It was a Dominican tradition, Tony had told me. A celebration of survival. A thank you to God for bringing the metal bird back to earth.

Catalina didn't look up from her phone. She was typing furiously, her thumbs moving in a blur over the glass screen.

"Minister Castillo’s fixer is meeting us at the VIP tarmac," she said, her voice tight. "Don't speak to him, Max. Just nod. He’s... colorful."

"Colorful," I repeated, unbuckling my seatbelt. "Does that mean armed?"

"It means expensive," she corrected.

The cabin door opened, and the atmosphere of the cabin changed instantly. The cool, scrubbed air of the jet was replaced by an invasion.

The heat didn't just enter; it assaulted us. It was heavy, wet, and smelled of jet fuel, burning sugar cane, and salt. It smelled like life.

"Jesus," Tony groaned from the seat behind me, adjusting his sunglasses. He was wearing a floral shirt that was aggressively bright, even for the Caribbean. "It’s like walking into a sauna with a muffler around your neck."

"It’s the tropics, Anthony," Cata said, standing up and smoothing her linen trousers. "Try not to sweat on the upholstery."

We descended the stairs. A black SUV was waiting on the tarmac, engines idling. Standing next to it was a man who looked like he had been carved out of mahogany. He wore a guayabera that was strained across his chest and sunglasses that reflected the harsh sun.

"Mrs. DeLuca," the man said, opening the door. He didn't smile. "Minister Castillo sends his regards. Bienvenida."

"Thank you, Bautista," Cata said, sliding into the cool dark of the car without breaking stride.

I followed her, ducking into the air-conditioned sanctuary. Tony scrambled in last, carrying his backpack like a schoolboy.

"To the Casas del XVI," Cata ordered.

The car peeled away, bypassing customs entirely.

"VIP treatment," Tony whispered to me. "I could get used to this. No lines? No taking off my shoes?"

"It's not free, Tony," I murmured, watching the airport fade behind us.

The drive into Santo Domingo was a lesson in contrasts. Inside the car, it was silent, cool, and smelled of leather. Outside the tinted glass, the world was exploding.

We merged onto the highway, and the chaos began.

Motoconchos—motorcycle taxis—wove between semi-trucks with a reckless disregard for physics. Men sat three-deep on bikes, holding chickens, propane tanks, and in one case, a flat-screen TV. Vendors walked between cars at stoplights, selling bags of plantain chips, phone chargers, and cold water.

"¡Agua! ¡Agua fría!"

I pressed my hand against the window. I wanted to roll it down. I wanted to hear the noise. I wanted to smell the exhaust and the frying oil.

"Don't look at them, Max," Cata said, not looking up from her iPad. "It’s depressing."

"It's not depressing," I said quietly. "It's energetic."

"It's inefficient," she countered. "Look at that traffic. The infrastructure is a disaster. That’s why Minister Castillo needs us. We bring order."

"We bring plastic marble," I thought, but I didn't say it.

We entered the city, passing the Malecon. The Caribbean Sea crashed against the rocks on our right, vast and turquoise. On our left, the city rose up—crumbling pastel buildings next to shiny glass towers.

We turned into the Zona Colonial. The streets narrowed. The asphalt turned to cobblestones.

The car stopped in front of a heavy wooden gate. A security guard waved us in.

We drove into a courtyard that felt like a different century. Lush ferns, a bubbling fountain, and tiles that looked like they had been hand-painted by monks. Casas del XVI. It wasn't a hotel; it was a collection of restored 16th-century houses turned into a luxury compound.

"We have the Master Suite in the Casa del Diseñador," Cata announced, stepping out of the car. "Tony, you are in the guest house. Don't wander off. We have a dinner with Giovanni at 8:00."

"Aye aye, Captain," Tony saluted, already eyeing the poolside bar.

I stood in the courtyard, holding my bag. A lizard scurried across the warm stones.

"Max?" Cata called from the doorway of our suite. "Coming?"

I looked at the heavy wooden gates closing behind us, shutting out the street, the noise, and the sea.

We had just traveled 1,500 miles, but we hadn't really left Jersey. we had just moved into a prettier cage.

"Coming," I said.