“And the men?” I asked.

“The ones who did not cooperate will face trial,” Harris said. “The rest will have to find honest work.”

I looked at Elena.

She did not say anything, but her eyes told me what I already knew.

There was no other way out of this room.

If I fought, Marcus would spend the next twenty years in a federal penitentiary.

He was not built for prison; he would not survive the first winter.

I reached out my hand and picked up the pen.

The plastic was cold against my fingers.

“Show me where to sign,” I said.

Harris turned the pages of the document, pointing to the yellow flags at the bottom of each sheet.

I signed my name, over and over, watching the blue ink dry on the white paper.

With each signature, another piece of my life was chipped away and stored in a cardboard box.

The docks were gone.

The penthouse was gone.

The name that had made grown men tremble in the backrooms of the city was now just a signature on a plea agreement.