The ride in the Maybach was silent.

We walked into the taped-off construction site. It was a ghost town. The fake marble block I had smashed was still there, a jagged monument to the Gala.

Giovanni walked up to it. He touched the gray resin interior. He frowned.

"Plastic," he muttered. "She sold me plastic."

"She sold you a spreadsheet," I corrected. "She cut costs to boost the margin. The structure suffered."

Giovanni turned to me. "So? Is it a tear-down? Do I walk away?"

"No," I said.

I walked to the center of the courtyard. I pointed to the ancient stone walls of the East Wing.

"The bones are good, Giovanni. This limestone? It’s been here for five hundred years. It doesn't need to be covered in fake marble. It needs to breathe."

I pulled out my notebook. I opened it to the sketch I had made—the Project Turquoise concept.

"We strip it," I said, my voice gaining strength. "We remove the cladding. We expose the original masonry. We don't build a glass tower. We build a sanctuary. Open air. Local stone. Mahogany."

I looked at him.

"You wanted 'Authentic Luxury'? This is it. It costs less in materials, but it requires skilled labor. Local labor."

Giovanni looked at the sketch. He looked at the ruins. He looked at me—dirty, sweaty, but finally standing tall.

"And who builds this?" Giovanni asked. "You?"

"Me," I said. "But not as a partner of Sterling-DeLuca. That firm is dead."

"Then as what?"

"As a consultant," I said. "I hire the crew. I pick the materials. I run the site. And I stay here. I don't go back to Jersey."

Giovanni studied me. He was a shark, but sharks recognize blood in the water—and they recognize strength.

"The Ministry will only issue the permit if we have a licensed architect of record," Giovanni said. "Your license is in New York."

"The Ministry is desperate," I bluffed. "They don't want a scandal. If you back me, they will stamp the papers."

Giovanni smiled. It was a small, terrifying smile.

"You have become a tigre, Max," he noted.

He reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out a checkbook.

"I need this site operational in one week," Giovanni said. "Can you do it?"

"I can do it."

Giovanni wrote a check. He tore it out.

"This is your advance," he said, handing it to me. "Consulting fee. Don't spend it all on... empanadas."

I looked at the check. Fifty thousand dollars.

It wasn't millions. But it was enough. It was enough to pay the lawyers. It was enough to fix my visa. It was enough to start.

"One more thing," I said.

"Yes?"

"The crew," I pointed to the gate where Raúl was waiting nervously. "I set the wages. And I want them paid double for the cleanup phase. It's dangerous work."

Giovanni laughed. "Fine. Double wages. Just get it done."

He turned and walked back to the Maybach.

I stood in the center of the courtyard, holding the check.

I wasn't an employee anymore. I wasn't a husband.

I was the Architect.

I took out my blue pen. I wrote on the top of the sketch:

"Raúl!" I yelled. "Open the gate! We're back in business!"