CHAPTER 4: Denied Credit and the Renaissance in Rome
The morning after the trial didn’t dawn; it simply exploded. For Ricardo Landa, waking up was a disorienting experience. He opened his eyes and didn’t recognize the ceiling. It wasn’t the Venetian plaster of his mansion in Las Lomas, nor the industrial finish of his bachelor pad in Santa Fe. It was a generic white ceiling, with a smoke detector flashing an annoying red light.
He sat bolt upright, his head throbbing as if a drill were inside it. He was in a suite at the St. Regis Hotel . He vaguely remembered arriving there the night before, after being fired from his own company, with a bottle of whiskey he’d stolen from the boardroom minibar.
She reached for her phone on the nightstand. It was off. When she turned it on, the device vibrated continuously for a full three minutes. Hundreds of notifications. WhatsApp messages from business partners, emails from lawyers, Google News alerts.
But one notification stood out from the rest. An alert from her banking app: American Express Centurion: Card Blocked by Court Order.
Ricardo felt a chill in his stomach. “It must be a mistake,” he thought. “Benítez isn’t that fast.”
She got up, showered with ice-cold water to try and wash away the smell of failure, and dressed in the same clothes she’d worn the day before. She had no luggage. Nothing. She went down to the lobby intending to order a hearty breakfast before going to yell at someone.
The hotel restaurant was full of executives having breakfast. Ricardo noticed several heads turn as he walked in. They no longer looked at him with respect or envy. They looked at him with the morbid curiosity one has of a car crash on the highway. He heard murmurs.
“It’s him… the one with the DNA test.”
“They say he’s bankrupt.”
“What a shame.”
Ricardo clenched his jaw and sat down at a secluded table. He ordered black coffee and eggs Benedict. When he finished, he asked for the check.
“Charge it to room 402,” he said in his usual commanding voice.
The waiter, a friendly young man, returned two minutes later with a look of deep discomfort.
“Excuse me, Mr. Landa. The system won’t let us charge your room. Apparently, the card you left as a guarantee when you checked in was declined this morning.”
“Impossible,” Ricardo said with a nervous laugh. “It’s an unlimited card. Try again.”
—We’ve already tried three times, sir. Code 05: Deny. Hold card.
Ricardo felt the blood rush to his face.
“Here,” he said, taking out his crocodile-skin wallet and pulling out a Visa Platinum card from another bank. “Use this one.”
The waiter left and returned even faster.
“I’m very sorry, sir. Also declined. ‘Funds frozen.'”
The silence in the restaurant grew heavier. People at nearby tables had stopped eating to watch the spectacle. The great Ricardo Landa, the man who graced the covers of business magazines, couldn’t afford three hundred pesos worth of eggs.
“This is ridiculous,” Ricardo said, standing up and throwing away his napkin. “It’s a bank mistake. I’m going to call right now.”
“Sir,” the restaurant manager appeared out of nowhere, gently blocking his path. “We understand there may have been an administrative error, but hotel policy is strict. We need you to settle your breakfast and last night’s stay before you leave. It’s eighteen thousand pesos.”
Ricardo searched his pockets. He pulled out a crumpled five-hundred-peso bill and some coins. It was all the cash he had. He always lived on credit, relying on the magic plastic that opened every door.
“I don’t have any cash. Let me go to my office and I’ll send you a check.”
The manager shook his head, maintaining a professional but firm smile.
“I’m afraid we can’t do that. If you can’t pay, we’ll have to call security… or the police.”
The word “police” hit Ricardo like a slap in the face. Him? Arrest him for not paying for breakfast?
He looked around, searching for a friendly face. He saw Luis, a former partner at Lang Tech , sitting two tables back.
“Luis!” Ricardo called. “Luis, brother. I’m having trouble with my cards. Can you cover for me? I’ll transfer it to you in an hour.”
Luis looked down at his plate of fruit. He didn’t answer. He didn’t move. He simply pretended Ricardo didn’t exist. It was social death on live TV.
Finally, Ricardo had to do the unthinkable. He took off his watch. A rose gold Patek Philippe Nautilus , valued at over one hundred thousand dollars.
“Here,” he said, handing it to the manager. “This is worth more than your entire miserable hotel. Keep it as collateral.”
The manager glanced at his watch, then looked at Ricardo with pity.
“Sir, we’re not a pawn shop. But… I’ll accept this as a temporary deposit until 2:00 PM. If you don’t return with the money, we’ll call the authorities.”
Ricardo ran out of the hotel, without looking back, his bare wrist feeling light and free. No watch, no money, no dignity. He stepped onto Paseo de la Reforma and the sun burned his eyes. For the first time in his adult life, he had to walk. Walk among ordinary people, among office workers on their way to work, amidst the noise and smog.
He headed to his “bachelor” apartment in Polanco, the place where he and Isa had taken refuge so many times. There he kept a safe with cash. Dollars, euros, gold coins. His emergency fund.
He arrived at the luxury building on Tres Picos Street. The concierge, Don Beto, who always greeted him with a bow, this time stood in the way of the glass door.
“Good morning, Don Beto. Open up,” Ricardo ordered, panting from the walk.
—I’m sorry, Engineer Landa. I can’t let it go.
—What are you talking about? It’s my apartment! I own the penthouse!
“It was, engineer,” Don Beto said, pointing to a piece of paper taped to the glass door. An official seal from the Attorney General’s Office and the Tax Administration Service. “They came this morning at six. Precautionary seizure. They changed the locks and put seals on the door. They said no one is allowed in, not even you. Especially not you.”
Ricardo read the paper. “Property Seizure. Criminal Case: Generic Fraud and Fraudulent Administration. Complainant: Lang Tech Solutions and Landa Family Trust .”
Camila. And Eugenio. They had joined forces. They had hunted him down like an animal.
Ricardo banged his fist on the glass.
“My things! My clothes! My money!”
“I’m sorry, engineer. If you keep shouting, the neighbors are going to complain and I’ll have to call the police.”
Ricardo backed away. He was cornered on Mexico’s most expensive street, penniless. He sat down on the sidewalk next to a perfectly manicured planter. He took out his phone. He had to call someone. Anyone.
He dialed Isa’s number. He knew it was pathetic, but maybe she had some cash he’d given her.
—The number you dialed is unavailable or outside the service area.
Isa had changed her number. Of course. Rats are the first to abandon ship.
While Ricardo was living his descent into hell in Polanco, Camila was walking along a tree-lined street in the Roma Norte neighborhood, ten kilometers away, but in a completely different reality.
The air smelled of roasted coffee and freshly baked bread. Camila was wearing jeans, white sneakers, and a linen shirt. She felt light. She had slept eight hours straight for the first time in years.
He stopped in front of an old, French-style mansion, its paint a little faded but with a magnificent structure. Large windows, high ceilings, wrought-iron balconies.
On the facade was a small, discreet sign: “For Rent” .
Camila took some keys out of her purse. She hadn’t rented them that day. She had rented the place three months ago, secretly, using money she had inherited from her grandmother, money that Ricardo could never touch because it was in a joint account with his mother.
He opened the heavy wooden door and stepped inside.
The space was empty, filled with dust and light. The sun streamed in, illuminating the dust particles that danced in the air. It smelled of old wood and turpentine.
“Hello,” Camila said to no one in particular. Her voice echoed off the empty walls.
This was going to be her refuge. No, not a refuge. Her trench.
“Hartwell Gallery.” She would use her maiden name. Camila Hartwell. The art expert who had abandoned her promising career to raise the children of a man who didn’t deserve her.
She took out her phone and dialed a number.
“Javier? Hi, it’s Camila… Yes, Camila Hartwell. I’m ready. Yes, I already have the space. I want to start the remodeling on Monday. No, nothing fancy. I want white walls, perfect lighting, and polished wood floors. I want the art to speak for itself, not the decor.”
She hung up and walked around the space, imagining the paintings. She didn’t want to bring in the trendy artists Ricardo bought just to show off prices. She wanted to bring in real artists. Forgotten women, young talents from Oaxaca, sculptors who worked with recycled trash. Art with pain, with history. Art like her life.
Her phone rang again. It was Benítez.
“Camila, good morning. How did you sleep?”
—Very well, Horacio. Any news?
“Several. And very effective,” Benítez’s voice sounded pleased. “The seizure was executed perfectly. Ricardo tried to pay for his breakfast with the watch at the St. Regis. The manager called me to confirm if the watch was also under seizure. I told him that technically it’s marital property, so they held it.”
Camila let out a small laugh. Not cruel, but incredulous.
“Is she out on the street?”
—Technically, yes. His personal accounts are empty. The company accounts are frozen for him. And I’ve heard from the Prosecutor’s Office. The complaint for fraudulent administration filed by the Lang Tech Board is progressing quickly. It seems Ricardo wasn’t very good at covering his tracks. He used his home IP address to make transfers to Isa’s accounts.
“How clumsy,” Camila murmured.
“Arrogance makes intelligent people foolish, Camila. They think no one will dare to investigate them. Anyway, I’m calling to tell you that they’ll probably try to contact you. Him, or some public defender if he can’t get a private one. My advice: don’t answer. Do everything through me.”
—Don’t worry, Horacio. I have nothing to say to him.
She hung up. She stared at the phone for a moment.
A part of her, the part that had loved him for fifteen years, felt a pang of pity. She remembered young Ricardo, the one who had been afraid of failing. Now that fear had come true.
But then she remembered Bella asking if she was still Daddy’s favorite. She remembered Ricardo walking into the courthouse with Isa, laughing.
The pity evaporated.
Camila left the mansion and double-locked the door. She walked to a nearby café, sat at an outside table, and ordered a cappuccino. She took out her notebook and began sketching the gallery’s floor plan.
“Inaugural Exhibition: What Remains After the Fire .”
It would be a success. She knew it.
Meanwhile, Ricardo’s situation went from desperate to humiliating.
After being turned away from his building, he tried to go to his mother’s house in the Del Valle neighborhood. His mother, Doña Tere, was a simple woman who had never fully understood her son’s world, but who adored him.
He arrived by taxi (he’d managed to get a taxi driver to take him by promising to pay him upon arrival—another lie). When he got to the small, cozy house where he grew up, he saw a car parked outside.
Camila’s SUV.
Ricardo froze. What was she doing there?
He crept up to the living room window.
There was Camila, sitting on the sofa with Doña Tere. They were both drinking coffee. Doña Tere was crying, and Camila was holding her hand tenderly.
Ricardo strained his ears.
“I’m so sorry, Tere. I didn’t want you to find out on television,” Camila said.
“Oh, my child,” her mother sobbed. “I always knew he was changing that money. He became hardened. He forgot where he came from. But to deny his children… that is unforgivable. Those children are my grandchildren.”
—And they always will be, Tere. You will always be their grandmother. Ricardo may cease to be my husband, but you will never cease to be my family. I promise you will lack nothing. I will take care of your medicines and the house.
—Thank you, daughter. You’re an angel. I don’t know what got into my son.
Ricardo felt a stab in his chest, more painful than the embargo. His mother. His own mother was on Camila’s side. She wasn’t even defending him.
He wanted to go inside, wanted to shout, tell them it was a misunderstanding. But he saw his reflection in the windowpane.
He saw a sweaty, disheveled man, his suit stained with coffee, his eyes wild. He looked like a vagrant. He looked like his father when he used to come home drunk thirty years ago.
Terror paralyzed him. He had become what he hated most.
He didn’t have the courage to ring the doorbell.
He turned and ran. He ran until he was breathless.
FINAL SCENE OF THE CHAPTER: THE UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTER
Night fell on Mexico City. Ricardo ended up sitting on a bench in the Alameda Central, in the city center. It was a democratic place, where tourists, lovers, and homeless people mingled. Ricardo fit dangerously well into the last category.
He was hungry. Very hungry. He hadn’t eaten anything since the failed breakfast.
He saw a street vendor selling esquites. The smell of corn, epazote, and mayonnaise made his stomach churn with craving. He approached.
“How much is a cup?” he asked.
“Thirty pesos, young man,” the woman said.
Ricardo searched his pockets. He had twenty-five pesos in coins.
“I only have twenty-five. Will you give it to me like this?”
The lady looked at him. She saw the expensive but dirty suit. She saw his desperation.
“Okay then. But without cheese.”
Ricardo took the warm glass. The first bite tasted heavenly. He sat back down on the bench, eating eagerly.
Suddenly, he sensed a presence in front of him. Someone was standing there, blocking his view of the Torre Latinoamericana.
He looked up.
It was Isa.
But this wasn’t the glamorous Isa from the courtroom. She was wearing ripped jeans (not designer), an oversized gray sweatshirt, and her hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail. She wasn’t wearing makeup, and deep dark circles were visible under her eyes.
They looked at each other in silence. Two castaways on the same deserted island.
“You look like shit, Ricardo,” Isa said, her voice hoarse.
“You don’t look very good either, Isa,” he replied, wiping a kernel of corn from the corner of his lips.
Isa sat at the other end of the bench, keeping her distance.
“Javi wouldn’t let me into his house. He told me that if the baby wasn’t his, he’d kill me. And if it was his, he had no way to support it. I’m sleeping in a seedy hostel nearby.”
“They seized everything,” Ricardo said, looking at his empty glass. “I don’t even have enough for a taxi.”
—I know. I saw it on Twitter. You’re the national laughingstock.
They remained silent for a few minutes, watching people pass by. The irony was brutal. Just 48 hours earlier they had been planning trips to Europe and shopping sprees at Chanel. Now they were sharing a bench in the Alameda.
“You know what the worst part is?” Isa said suddenly, with tears in her eyes. “That Camila was right.”
Ricardo turned his head.
“What are you talking about?”
—She warned me about it once. A year ago, at a party. I ran into her in the bathroom. I thought she was going to yell at me. But she just looked at me and said, “Be careful what you wish for, girl. Ricardo is a man who loves the glitz, but when the glitz fades, he doesn’t know what to do with the darkness.”
Isa wiped away a tear.
“I wanted your sparkle, Ricardo. I wanted your money, your trips, your power. But now that you’re faded… you’re a very small man. And I’m stupid for having believed you were a prize.”
Ricardo felt his anger rise again.
“I made you, Isa. You were nobody before me.”
“And I’m nobody now,” she retorted. “But at least I know I’m a gold digger. You… you thought you were a god. And look where you are now. Eating corn on the cob on credit.”
Isa stood up.
“I’m leaving. I’m going to my parents’ house in Toluca. I’m going to tell them the truth. That I messed up. That I’m pregnant by a gym instructor and that I wasted two years of my life with a ridiculous old man. I’d rather have their scolding than your company.”
“Wait!” Ricardo stood up. “Are you leaving? Are you going to leave me here? I’m cold! I have nowhere to go!”
Isa looked at him with a coldness that painfully reminded him of Camila.
“Well, call your wife, Ricardo. Oh, wait… she’s not your wife anymore. Good luck with that.”
Isa turned around and walked toward the Bellas Artes metro station, disappearing into the crowd.
Ricardo was alone again.
It started to rain. A cold rain, typical of Mexico City, that chilled him to the bone.
Ricardo Landa covered himself with his coffee-stained jacket, curled up on the bench, and closed his eyes, wishing with all his might to wake up in his bed in Las Lomas.
But he knew that awakening would never come. The nightmare was real. And it was only just beginning.
