Chapter 13 - THE BOSS WHO GAVE IT ALL UP
Dwayne Cross pleaded guilty six months later.
Not to murder.
Not to weapons trafficking.
Those belonged to Simon and Vincent’s network.
But money laundering.
Fraud.
Obstruction.
Crimes he actually committed.
His attorneys negotiated eighteen months in federal custody, followed by supervised release.
Dwayne accepted.
The city reacted like an empire had collapsed.
In some ways, it had.
Cross Logistics was restructured.
Illegal dock operations were dismantled.
Legitimate shipping divisions moved under independent oversight.
Addison testified.
Truthfully.
She did not soften facts.
She did not exaggerate them either.
When prosecutors asked whether Dwayne threatened her at L’Aura, she said:
“Yes.”
He almost smiled.
When asked whether he later instructed her to lie for him:
“No.”
That mattered.
Nathan recovered enough physically to return to work.
Not docks.
Never docks.
He became a compliance investigator.
He claimed irony was therapeutic.
Celeste divorced Dwayne legally.
Their marriage had been dead long before her staged death.
For the first time, they spoke honestly.
“I loved you,” she told him.
“I know.”
“You scared me.”
“I know.”
“I should have left without pretending to die.”
“Yes.”
She laughed.
“I hate that you learned accountability.”
“So do I.”
Elias Rourke was cleared of Simon’s fabricated murders after Addison’s evidence proved the timeline.
He met Dwayne outside court.
Father and son stared at each other.
No hug.
Not yet.
“You look like Margaret.”
“That is apparently everyone’s favorite opening line.”
Elias almost smiled.
They began slowly.
Coffee.
Questions.
Arguments.
Nothing magical.
Margaret too.
Dwayne did not forgive her manipulation simply because she was his mother.
But he stopped pretending she meant nothing.
Then there was Addison.
She resigned the day before Dwayne entered prison.
He stared at the letter.
“You’re leaving?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I cannot figure out who I am while still being your secretary.”
That hurt.
He understood.
“What will you do?”
“Something with fewer extortion invoices.”
“Low bar.”
“Very.”
Then Addison reached into her bag.
His black corporate credit card.
Expired.
She placed it on the desk.
“I kept this.”
“Sentimental?”
“Evidence.”
He laughed.
“Of course.”
She turned toward the door.
“Addison.”
She stopped.
“I’m sorry about the bet.”
She looked back.
“I know.”
“I’m sorry I saw you as furniture.”
“I know.”
“I’m sorry I threatened you.”
“I definitely remember.”
He nodded.
Then said the only thing that mattered.
“You never owed me invisibility to be safe.”
Her face changed.
“Thank you.”
She left.
Dwayne entered custody the following morning.
Eleven months into his sentence, he received a letter.
Addison.
No perfume.
No emotion-heavy speech.
Just one page.
I started a forensic accounting firm.
Nathan works for me.
We specialize in companies whose owners believe accountants are boring.
Business is excellent.
Dwayne laughed alone in his cell.
Then he reached the final line.
When you get out, if you are still capable of eating dinner without turning it into psychological warfare, call me.
Below it was a phone number.
May you like
Dwayne read it five times.
He had memorized it by the second.
