Page 15 of The Picasso Heist

“SON OF A bitch,” says Bergamo.

“Funny,” says Anton Nikolov, leaning against the front of the giant four-poster bed. He points at me. “Because she happens to be young enough to be your daughter.”

Bergamo looks truly stunned. It’s perfect. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asks.

“The very same question your lovely wife would be asking were she here,” says Nikolov. “How is Deborah, by the way? I assume she’s downstairs somewhere at the party?”

Bergamo glares at Nikolov. “So this… what? This whole thing was a setup? If you wanted to talk to me, Anton, you could’ve just picked up the damn phone.”

“Not exactly,” says Nikolov. “Nice work, by the way, Halston. Very nice. Although, not to take anything away from you, but most men will follow their dicks just about anywhere. No offense.”

“None taken,” I say.

Bergamo’s now glaring at the two of us, his head on a swivel. “You? Him? You’re… working together or something?”

“Something like that,” says Nikolov. “Now that you mention it, we’re actually looking for another partner. That’s why I’m here.”

“No. That’s why you’re leaving,” says Bergamo. “You and I have no business to discuss. We’re square. Even. I owe you absolutely nothing.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, and you know it,” says Nikolov. “You owe me everything.”

“You mean everything except the only thing that actually matters: money. Have I not thanked you enough? You gave me a loan years ago, and I paid you back, with hefty interest. What more do you want from me?”

That’s my cue. I explain the whole plan to Bergamo, tell him exactly what we need him to do for us, go through every last detail. When I’m done, he has only one question for me.

“Are you fucking crazy?” he asks. “That’s not a favor, that’s a felony.”

“Only if you get caught, which you won’t,” says Nikolov. “And I never used the word favor.”

“Call it whatever you want but I’m not doing it,” says Bergamo. “I won’t.”

“Yes, you will,” says Nikolov.

“Or what? Are you threatening me? Are you going to sic your goons on me now?”

Nikolov laughs. “Do people still say goon? No, Enzi. No one’s laying a finger on you. Like with all fools, the greatest threat to you will always be you.”

Again, that’s my cue.

When Nikolov took me shopping, he had three requirements for the dress. One, it had to be drop-dead sexy. Two, it couldn’t be one of Bergamo’s. And three, it had to go with a purse I owned that had an outside pocket.

Actually, that third one wasn’t really a requirement. “If you don’t have a purse like that, I’ll buy one for you,” he said.

No need, I told him.

Now I reach into the outside pocket of my black Saint Laurent handbag that perfectly matches my new Bottega Veneta dress and remove my iPhone.

If Bergamo had looked closely, he would’ve seen it sticking out just a smidge, enough so the microphone was exposed.

But Bergamo was looking at nothing but me the whole time.

That’s the power of a woman in the right dress.

He knows what’s coming even before I press play, but I press play anyway because making a married man listen to himself telling a woman who isn’t his wife that he plans to have sex with her in the exact spot where he and his wife sleep every night guarantees that he will undergo a major realignment of his thinking.

“Okay,” says Bergamo with a defeated sigh. “When’s the damn auction?”