The Divorce Papers

The courier returned. Same helmet, same attitude.

"Sign," he grunted.

He handed me a large, thick envelope.

The shop was quiet. Sofía was behind the counter, pretending to organize receipts, but her knuckles were white.

I opened the envelope.

I flipped to the summary page. There was a red sticky note attached to the Assets section.

Max,

Catalina is refusing to sign. She is claiming the Porsche 911 is a corporate asset because the restoration was paid for by the firm. She wants to drag this into arbitration. It could take another six months.

- Your Lawyer

I read the line items.

Penthouse: Catalina.
Accounts: Catalina.
Intellectual Property: Catalina.
1978 Porsche 911: DISPUTED.

I stared at the paper.

The Porsche. My dad's car. The one thing I had fought to keep. The one thing that proved I was a DeLuca, not a Sterling.

If I fought for it, I would have to go back to New York. I would have to see her. I would have to spend half a year in a deposition room, arguing over the memory of my parents.

"What is it?" Sofía asked, walking around the counter. "Is she asking for more?"

"She's stalling," I said. "She's using the car as leverage. She knows I love it. She thinks I'll come back to beg for it."

I looked at the grainy photo of the red Porsche attached to the file. It was beautiful. It was perfect.

It was a ghost.

"Max," Sofía said softly. "You can fight for it. It's yours."

I looked around the shop. The peeling paint. The humming fridge. The woman standing next to me with ink on her fingers.

"I don't need a getaway car anymore," I said. "I'm already where I want to be."

I picked up a pen. A cheap, blue ballpoint pen.

I crossed out DISPUTED.

Next to it, in block letters, I wrote: GRANTED TO CATALINA STERLING.

Then I flipped to the back page and signed my name.

Maximiliano DeLuca.

The signature was loose, fast. Free.

"Max," Sofía whispered, looking at what I had done. "That car... it was worth millions."

"It was the price of admission," I said, closing the folder. "For this."

I handed the envelope back to the courier.

"Take it," I said. "Tell her she won. Tell her she can have the glass box and everything in it."

The courier shrugged and walked out.

I felt a sudden, terrifying lightness. I was broke. I was car-less. I was homeless.

"I have nothing," I laughed, a genuine sound that bubbled up from my chest. "Sofía, I am officially a man with nothing."

Sofía smiled. She reached out and grabbed my shirt, pulling me into a kiss that tasted of coffee and the future.

"You have a tab at the colmado," she murmured against my lips. "And you have me. That is not nothing."

"It's everything," I said.

"Welcome home, tigre," she said. "Now fix the cutter. We have work to do."