Chapter 19- Room 17
1054 Words
The motel off I-10 smelled like it hadn’t forgotten a single crime. Room 17 sat at the far end of the row, shaded by an overgrown cactus and the shadow of a tilted power line. The curtains were drawn, the door cracked.
I stepped in slowly.
Luca was there—alive, barely. He looked older. Not by years, but by damage. Like the past few months had carved him out.
He didn’t stand. He didn’t reach for a weapon either. That almost unnerved me more.
“You’re late,” he said.
I shut the door behind me. “Traffic.”
He gave a dry smile, but his eyes didn’t match it. They were watching me too closely. Studying.
“Why now?” he asked.
I stayed by the door. “Why call me?”
“I didn’t say I called you.”
A beat of silence.
This was the game. Suspicion under every word.
He stood slowly, his body stiff. “You disappeared after Queens. Word is, you ran.”
I tilted my head. “And what do they say about you?”
“That I flipped.” His jaw tightened. “That I’m trading names for protection.”
“Are you?”
“I should ask you the same.”
I crossed my arms. “You think I’m working with someone?”
“I think people are watching you, Santana. Watching me, too. I don’t believe in coincidence anymore.”
That was close. Closer than I liked.
He turned, walked toward the small desk near the window. Picked up a cheap burner phone and held it up.
“This showed up in my car a week ago. No contacts. One file. A video of you walking into Warehouse 4.”
I kept my face still.
“Thing is,” he continued, “that footage was dated three days before the warehouse was hit. Before the fire. Before the files went missing.”
I said nothing.
He tossed the phone onto the bed between us.
“You tell me what that means.”
I shrugged. “Means someone’s playing both of us.”
“Or maybe just one of us.”
I smiled. “If you thought it was me, I wouldn’t be standing here.”
That earned a flicker of amusement in his eyes.
“You’ve always been a little more dangerous than you look.”
“And you’ve always underestimated me.”
He stepped closer, not threatening—but not innocent either.
“Let me be clear,” he said. “If I find out you’re feeding someone information… if you’re working with someone behind my back... I won’t ask twice next time.”
“You’re not in a position to make threats, Luca.”
He leaned in. “Neither are you.”
I let the tension sit for a moment. Let it turn thick.
Then I shifted gears. “You’re right about one thing,” I said. “Something bigger’s happening. Someone wants both of us to be paranoid. Separated. Distracted.”
His silence told me he agreed.
I kept going. “You’re still in deep, Luca. Don’t pretend you’re clean. But you want to live, right? You want to not end up like Romano?”
Something in his face twitched at the name.
“Help me find the next site,” I said. “That’s all I want.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because they’re coming for both of us. And because if I burn, I won’t go alone.”
He paused. Then nodded once.
“I might know someone,” he said. “But if I talk to them, it happens my way.”
I nodded slowly. “Then start talking.”
Luca didn’t give up the contact right away. He walked to the window, cracked the blinds, and scanned the parking lot. His paranoia wasn’t an act—it was a survival instinct. And it was growing.
“I’ve got a name,” he said finally. “Rafael Durán. Freight contractor. Handles southbound loads, mostly unregistered cargo. He knows more than he should about border movement. El Paso, Nogales, Ciudad Juárez.”
I filed the name away, already thinking ahead.
“You trust him?”
Luca laughed once, bitterly. “I don’t trust anyone anymore. But Durán’s greedy, not stupid. He only talks if he smells leverage.”
“What kind?”
“You.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Me?”
“Not you exactly. What he thinks you are.”
He turned back to me fully now, eyes hard but curious. “You’ve got a reputation, Santana. Miami, Cartagena, that mess in Veracruz. People think you’ve got blood money stashed and a body count to match.”
I didn’t correct him. Couldn’t.
He stepped closer. “Durán will meet if he thinks you’re in play. That you’re looking for new lanes. Especially if I bring you in.”
“So I’m your trophy?”
“You’re my protection,” he said. “If this goes sideways, I want someone who can shoot straight standing behind me.”
“And if I decide to shoot you instead?”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Then at least it’ll be someone I almost respected.”
He gave me a burner number and a time. “He meets off-the-books. Old train yard outside Santa Teresa. Tomorrow night.”
I nodded and slid the paper into my jacket. “What’s the play?”
“You let me talk. You don’t flinch. And you don’t ask about girls, ports, or names.”
“Then what’s the point?”
“The point,” Luca said, voice low, “is that Durán doesn’t deal in morality. He deals in risk. You want to get inside? You prove you’re the biggest risk in the room.”
I turned to leave. At the door, I paused.
“What were you doing at the warehouse, Luca?”
He didn’t answer.
I didn’t wait.
Outside, the Texas sun hit me like a punishment. I climbed into the rental car and sat for a moment, staring through the windshield.
Luca Moretti wasn’t clean.
But he wasn’t stupid either.
He didn’t know who I was. Not yet.
And if I played this right…
He never would.
Not until the cuffs were on his wrists.
- Writer
