Page 41 of The Picasso Heist

THE DOORMAN RINGS up to the apartment as Nikolov stirs his drink. For the record, you never shake an old-fashioned. You always stir it.

Bergamo walks in, all smiles. This is the first time we’ve all been together since the day of the heist. I told Nikolov that was one time too many. Yes, the insurance got paid, but the police investigation is ongoing. This is not the moment to get sloppy.

Speaking of sloppy.

I can smell Bergamo from across the room. He’s been drinking. A lot. Everything about him is loose—his shirt, his tie, and, especially, his tongue. He’s slurring his words.

“Do you know where I’m supposed to be right now?

Back uptown at a Dior party surrounded by supermodels—I mean dozens of gorgeous girls, some of the most beautiful women in the world, each one flirting with me more than the next so they can be the face of my next ad campaign.

But instead I’m here. I’m fucking here, all right?

” he says, turning on his heel and almost losing his balance. “Where is it?”

Nikolov casually points at the far wall, behind the couch where Blaggy’s sitting. “Over there,” he says.

Bergamo does this combination walk/strut across the living room and stops as soon as he gets past the couch and sees the painting leaning against the wall. He was smiling when he came in, but now he’s positively beaming.

“It really is beautiful,” he says. “So beautiful.”

He stares at it in silence, barely blinking, and Nikolov shoots me a quick, knowing smile. Bergamo truly wanted to have one last look at it, just like he said.

“Enzi, can I fix you a drink?” asks Nikolov.

The question snaps Bergamo out of his trance. “Huh? Oh, no. No, thanks.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” he says. Bergamo literally waves goodbye to the painting and walks toward Nikolov at the bar. “But speaking of good…”

Nikolov nods. “I know what you’re about to say.”

“I don’t even know what I’m about to say.” Bergamo laughs, raising his finger in the air. “But I know what I’m thinking, so just hear me out, okay?”

“Okay,” says Nikolov. “I’m listening.”

“What I want to say… what I need to know is that we’re square. I owe you nothing, Anton, no more favors. No anything. That’s what I need,” he says. He balls his fists and says, à la Al Pacino, “‘Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in!’”

Nikolov is thoroughly entertained and more than willing to play along, assuring Bergamo that they are indeed square. “You’re out for good, Enzi. You have my word.”

They shake hands and Bergamo spins around and points at me, again almost losing his balance. “And you,” he says. “You and I aren’t done yet.”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure we are,” I tell him.

“No. Not until I see you do it,” says Bergamo, coming toward me.

“Do what?” I ask.

“Do what? Do what?” He’s mimicking me. Nikolov’s eating it up. Even Blaggy’s chuckling. “You set me up. Seduced me, recorded me, blackmailed me—now it’s time to erase me,” says Bergamo.

“So that’s why you wanted me here,” I say.

“I want you to take out your phone and get rid of that recording of us. Delete it. Poof. Straight into the trash can.”

I glance over at Nikolov, who’s mixing his third old-fashioned, and he gives me a nod. I’ve got his blessing. I imagine he’s given that same nod countless times over the years to people who work for him, and that was always the end of the story.

But I don’t work for Anton Nikolov.

“No,” I say.

Bergamo blinks in disbelief. “No? Did you just say no?”

“Did you just suddenly go deaf?” I ask.

Nikolov’s no longer mixing his third old-fashioned. Blaggy’s no longer watching the Yankees beat up on Boston’s middle relief pitcher. They’re both looking at me. Staring. Wondering, What the hell are you doing, Halston?

Bergamo lunges for my phone on the end table next to me but I beat him to it, sweep it up in my hands.

“Fucking bitch,” he says, undeterred. He grabs my arms and tries to pry the phone from me. We’re like a couple of children fighting in the back seat of the minivan. This is really happening.

Then, with one swift kick, it isn’t.

I land one right between Bergamo’s legs, and just like that, the only thing he’s grabbing is his crotch.

Nikolov’s seen enough. He puts down his drink, walks over to Blaggy. “Give me your gun,” he says.

Blaggy hands him his Glock, and two seconds later it’s pressed against my forehead—just like when Nikolov and I first met. We’ve come full circle.

“Erase the goddamn recording,” says Nikolov.

“Maybe you can trust him, but I can’t,” I say.

“Erase. The goddamn. Recording,” he repeats.

Nikolov’s not kidding around. This isn’t zabaven anymore. It’s not funny, and this is my last warning. He will not be asking again. There’ll be no counting down from three.

“Okay, okay,” I say. I swipe left on my phone to show him and Bergamo the recording. I play a second of it so they know for sure that’s it. Then, with one press of a button, I erase it. Poof. Gone.

Just like me.

The second Nikolov lowers his gun I make a beeline for the door and walk out of his apartment without looking back. “Screw you guys,” I say over my shoulder.

And that’s that.

Until an hour later, when Bergamo shows up at my apartment.