Chapter 8 - What the Bet Cost
By noon, Cross Logistics had federal agents in three conference rooms.
Dwayne hated every one of them.
Addison appeared delighted.
Not because she liked federal agents.
Because she liked organized document requests.
She created color-coded folders.
Dwayne watched from his office.
“You look happy.”
“I like subpoenas.”
“That sentence is abnormal.”
“They have indexes.”
“You need hobbies.”
“I had one.”
“What?”
“Investigating you.”
He stared.
She kept typing.
Victor Romano disappeared after the pier transfer.
Frank Delaney was arrested leaving the server floor.
Simon remained under guard, cooperating.
Elena slept for fourteen straight hours.
Cecilia Cross gave a sealed statement through attorneys.
For the first time in twenty-four hours, no one was actively kidnapping anyone.
Dwayne found the calm suspicious.
Addison found it productive.
At 1:17 p.m., Simon entered the office with a guard.
His face was bruised.
Dwayne looked up.
“Why are you here?”
Simon held out an envelope.
“Fifty thousand.”
Addison blinked.
“The bet.”
“Yes.”
Dwayne stared.
Simon placed the cash on Addison’s desk.
“You won.”
She looked at him.
“I was not part of the bet.”
“You destroyed it.”
“Different.”
Simon almost smiled.
“Take it.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I bought a seven-thousand-dollar outfit with company money.”
Dwayne said, “Nine.”
She looked at him.
“What?”
“The coat.”
Addison closed her eyes.
“Right.”
Simon pushed the envelope closer.
“Donate it.”
“To what?”
He thought.
“Victims of men making stupid bets.”
Addison laughed.
It surprised all three of them.
Dwayne realized he had never heard it.
Not the small amused breath she occasionally made at the office.
A real laugh.
Warm.
Uncontrolled.
He liked it too much.
Addison noticed him noticing.
The laugh stopped.
“Do not.”
“What?”
“That.”
“What?”
“Whatever your face is doing.”
Simon looked between them.
“Oh.”
Dwayne glared.
Simon grinned despite his injuries.
“Oh, this is excellent.”
“You can leave.”
“I’m under guard.”
“Then be guarded elsewhere.”
Simon looked at Addison.
“Careful.”
She raised one eyebrow.
“With Dwayne?”
“With yourself.”
That annoyed her.
Good.
Simon left.
Dwayne stood.
“Dinner.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“We already had dinner.”
“Interrupted.”
“Your dinners are statistically unsafe.”
“Lunch.”
“It is after one.”
“Coffee.”
“Your coffee is terrible.”
He stared.
She stared back.
This was absurd.
He controlled half the city’s freight.
He could not schedule one beverage with his own employee.
Then he understood.
“Date.”
Addison went still.
Dwayne had not planned to say it.
He rarely planned honesty.
Maybe that was why it arrived badly.
“No.”
“Immediate.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She looked at him like he had asked why gravity was inconvenient.
“You were going to humiliate me twenty-one hours ago.”
“Fair.”
“You threatened me before appetizers.”
“Also fair.”
“You are my employer.”
“Fixable.”
“You run a criminal logistics empire.”
“Complicated.”
“Not complicated.”
He almost smiled.
“You think I’m attractive.”
Addison’s eyes narrowed.
“That is not relevant.”
“Which means yes.”
“That means I am considering throwing a stapler.”
He laughed.
She hated that he was enjoying this.
Then his expression changed.
Serious.
“I am sorry.”
The words stopped her.
“For what?”
“The bet.”
“You didn’t invent it.”
“I accepted it.”
“Yes.”
“I thought embarrassing you would be entertaining.”
“Yes.”
“I was wrong.”
“Yes.”
He waited.
She sighed.
“An apology is not a coupon.”
“What?”
“You do not exchange it for a date.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
He stepped back.
“Then no date.”
She looked at him, surprised.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
Why did that bother her?
She returned to work.
Dwayne returned to his office.
At 2:03 p.m., Addison knocked.
He looked up.
“What?”
“Coffee.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“Not a date.”
“Obviously.”
“Employee coffee.”
“Do not ruin it.”
He stood.
They went downstairs.
The café across the street had fluorescent lighting and no armed men.
Dwayne looked uncomfortable.
Addison smiled.
“What?”
“You like watching me suffer.”
“A little.”
They sat.
No bodyguards at the table.
Nico nearby.
Addison drank tea.
Dwayne coffee.
For five minutes, neither discussed crime.
It felt stranger than the gunfight.
“What did you want before all this?” Dwayne asked.
“All what?”
“Your father. Elena. Cross Logistics.”
Addison thought.
“I wanted to teach.”
“Accounting?”
“Forensic accounting.”
“That sounds depressing.”
“It is surprisingly dramatic.”
“I believe you now.”
She looked at him.
“And you?”
“What?”
“What did you want before all this?”
He laughed.
“This is all I know.”
“That is not an answer.”
“My father expected me to inherit.”
“Expectation is not desire.”
Dwayne stared at his coffee.
He had no answer.
That told Addison more than one would have.
His phone rang.
Cecilia.
He answered.
Her voice was urgent.
“Dwayne.”
“What?”
“Do not let Addison leave the building.”
Addison heard.
She frowned.
Addison’s relationship with Elena after rescue became its own difficult investigation. Elena had survived by believing stories her captors repeated. Addison had survived by obsessively searching. Each sister resented the other for coping differently. They argued about locked doors, unanswered messages, and whether safety meant staying close or being allowed to leave. Love did not make those arguments disappear. It merely gave both of them a reason to return after cooling down.
“Why?”
Cecilia hesitated.
Then:
“Arthur Lynwood had another daughter.”
Addison’s blood ran cold.
“No.”
Cecilia said, “Before Elena. Before you.”
Addison gripped the table.
“My father had three daughters?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to her?”
Silence.
By then, the night had changed the way Addison understood danger. The obvious threats were almost easier: weapons, locked doors, men who announced what they wanted. The harder danger came from stories inherited without question. Dwayne had one about Malcolm. Simon had one about Edward. Elena had been given one about Addison. Addison had built one about Arthur. Each story contained enough truth to become believable and enough missing information to become useful to someone else. She had spent two years organizing documents because documents could be checked. Family mythology was harder. It had to be dismantled sentence by sentence.
By then, the night had changed the way Addison understood danger. The obvious threats were almost easier: weapons, locked doors, men who announced what they wanted. The harder danger came from stories inherited without question. Dwayne had one about Malcolm. Simon had one about Edward. Elena had been given one about Addison. Addison had built one about Arthur. Each story contained enough truth to become believable and enough missing information to become useful to someone else. She had spent two years organizing documents because documents could be checked. Family mythology was harder. It had to be dismantled sentence by sentence.
By then, the night had changed the way Addison understood danger. The obvious threats were almost easier: weapons, locked doors, men who announced what they wanted. The harder danger came from stories inherited without question. Dwayne had one about Malcolm. Simon had one about Edward. Elena had been given one about Addison. Addison had built one about Arthur. Each story contained enough truth to become believable and enough missing information to become useful to someone else. She had spent two years organizing documents because documents could be checked. Family mythology was harder. It had to be dismantled sentence by sentence.
By then, the night had changed the way Addison understood danger. The obvious threats were almost easier: weapons, locked doors, men who announced what they wanted. The harder danger came from stories inherited without question. Dwayne had one about Malcolm. Simon had one about Edward. Elena had been given one about Addison. Addison had built one about Arthur. Each story contained enough truth to become believable and enough missing information to become useful to someone else. She had spent two years organizing documents because documents could be checked. Family mythology was harder. It had to be dismantled sentence by sentence.
Cecilia answered.
“Victor raised her.”
Dwayne’s face changed.
“Who?”
Cecilia said the name.
“Marina Romano.”
Addison stared.
Victor’s only known child.
Marina Romano.
Age thirty-five.
Corporate attorney.
Publicly estranged from Victor.
Currently serving as counsel to the federal task force investigating Cross Logistics.
Dwayne slowly turned toward the federal building across the street where agents had just taken copies of their records.
Addison felt sick.
Her half-sister was inside the investigation.
With access to everything they had surrendered.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Cecilia’s voice broke.
“Arthur begged me not to.”
“Why?”
“Because he believed Marina chose Victor.”
Addison stood.
Dwayne caught the table before it moved.
“What are you doing?”
“Going back.”
They crossed the street quickly.
Inside Cross Tower, agents filled the lobby.
Addison scanned faces.
She had seen Marina before.
Three months earlier.
A woman in a gray suit who interviewed logistics staff.
Addison had thought she was just another federal attorney.
Then she saw her near the elevators.
Dark hair.
Hazel eyes.
Same gold flecks.
Marina saw Addison.
Stopped.
For one second, recognition passed between them.
Then Marina smiled.
“Addison.”
Dwayne moved closer.
“You know her.”
Marina looked at him.
“I know exactly who she is.”
Addison’s voice was quiet.
“Are you my sister?”
The lobby went silent around them.
Marina’s expression changed.
Something almost human.
Then it disappeared.
“I was wondering when Cecilia would tell you.”
Dwayne stepped forward.
“Where is Victor?”
Marina smiled.
“Still asking the wrong question.”
Addison froze.
Same words Victor used.
Marina turned back to her.
“You spent two years trying to find who killed Arthur.”
“Yes.”
“Victor did not.”
Addison stared.
“What?”
“Victor covered it up.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
“Then who?”
Marina’s eyes moved toward the executive elevators.
Toward Cross Logistics.
Toward Dwayne.
“The order came from Malcolm Cross.”
Dwayne’s face went cold.
“My father?”
Marina nodded.
“And Arthur knew it was coming.”
Addison could barely breathe.
“Why would my father know?”
May you like
Marina’s answer destroyed the last clean version of Arthur Lynwood.
“Because he asked Malcolm to do it.”
