The Supply Chain

The warm glow of Sunday lunch was gone. Monday morning brought the cold reality of the war I was fighting.

I walked into the San Nicolás site wearing my "work" clothes—jeans, work boots, and a hard hat I had retrieved from the supply shed.

Raúl, the foreman, met me at the gate. He looked nervous.

"Don Max," Raúl said, blocking my path. "The Project Manager is back from Punta Cana. He is in the office. He says... he says you are not authorized to be on site."

"Is that so?" I adjusted my hard hat. "Tell him I'm doing a quality assurance spot-check. Unless he wants me to call the Inspector from the Ministry of Tourism?"

Raúl paled. The Ministry could shut the site down for months.

"Go ahead," Raúl stepped aside. "But be fast."

I walked into the courtyard.

The sun was beating down on the white arches—the fake arches. But I wasn't here for the structure today. I was here for the finishings.

A delivery truck was backing into the loading bay.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Workers were unloading heavy wooden crates stamped with international shipping codes.

I walked over to the stack. The manifest stapled to the side read: PREMIUM ITALIAN MARBLE - CARRARA.

I pulled out my pocketknife.

"Hey! You can't open that!" a site supervisor yelled, running over.

I ignored him. I jammed the blade under the lid of the crate and pried it up. The wood splintered with a loud crack.

I looked inside.

It was white. It was shiny. It looked exactly like marble.

I reached in and touched the surface. It was room temperature.

Real stone holds the cold. Real stone feels alive. This felt like... countertops.

I tapped it with the handle of my knife. Thud. A dull, plastic sound.

"Composite," I whispered. "It's all composite."

"Mr. DeLuca!" The Project Manager, a sweaty American named Stevens, came running out of the office trailer. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I'm inspecting the materials, Stevens," I said, standing up. "This manifest says Italian Marble. This crate is full of engineered quartz from China. There's a zero missing from the price tag."

Stevens stopped. He crossed his arms, trying to look imposing.

"The client approved value engineering," Stevens said. "It's standard practice."

"Did the client approve paying five hundred thousand dollars for fifty thousand dollars of plastic?" I asked sharply. "Because that's what the budget says."

Stevens’ eyes flicked to the office trailer.

"You're confused, Max. You've been out in the sun too long. Go back to your hotel."

"I need to see the signed purchase orders," I said, stepping toward the trailer. "The ones with my signature on them. Because I never signed for this."

Stevens stepped in front of me. Two large security guards moved up behind him.

"You're trespassing," Stevens said, his voice low. "Catalina removed your clearance this morning. Get off the site, Max. Or I call the police."

I looked at the guards. I looked at the crate.

I had the physical evidence, but I didn't have the paper trail. Without the signed orders showing who authorized the switch, it was just my word against the firm's.

"Fine," I said, raising my hands. "I'm leaving."

I turned and walked away.

As I passed the office trailer, I glanced at the window. Through the dusty glass, I saw a file cabinet marked FINANCIALS - Q3.

I needed to get in there.

I walked out of the gate, my heart pounding. This wasn't just corner-cutting. This was grand larceny. Cata was defrauding the investors to fund her lifestyle, and she was setting me up to take the fall as the Architect of Record.

I pulled out my phone and texted Tony.

Me: I need you. Tonight. Bring your laptop.

Tony: I’m peeling plantains with Yulissa. Is it important?

Me: We need to break into a shipping container.

Tony: ...On my way.

I looked back at the Hotel San Nicolás. It looked beautiful from the outside. But inside, it was rotten.

Just like my marriage.

It was time to bring it all down.