Page 81 of The Picasso Heist

“HEY, IS THAT Anna Wintour?” someone says.

I don’t have time to look as an usher hurries us along the side wall of the jam-packed studio, the long runway for the models parting the crowd down the middle like a neon-white glow stick. There’s a buzz to the room, an energetic hum. But it’s nothing compared to backstage.

This is chaos. Everyone’s moving all at once. This way, that way. Every model, every dress each one is wearing—all of them are getting the last-minute finishing touches by a hive of workers wielding bobby pins, hair dryers, mascara wands, and lipstick.

“What?” demands a woman with a headset, stopping the usher as soon as we get three steps past the black velvet curtain. There’s no Hello, no How can I help you? Nothing but one word and a nasty look of complete annoyance. She repeats herself, hand on hip. “What?”

“Hi,” I say, stepping in front of the usher. Skip does the same. “We’re here to see Enzio.”

“So is everyone else,” says the woman, seamlessly transitioning from resting-bitch face to active-bitch face.

She gives me a quick head-to-toe and delivers an even quicker sniff-like sound as if to suggest she wouldn’t be caught dead wearing what I’m wearing, especially at an Enzio Bergamo fashion show.

I realize I’m going to enjoy this even more than I thought.

“Yes, I saw the crowd out front. He’s the man of the hour, all right. Who wouldn’t want to be at a Bergamo fashion event,” I say, putting a hand on Skip’s shoulder. “Now, can you please tell Enzio that Halston is here and urgently needs to speak with him? I promise you that he’ll want to see me.”

There’s that sniff-like sound again but it’s followed by the desired result. The woman pivots on her heel and goes off in search of Enzio.

“I think she likes you,” says Skip.

I turn to thank the usher for his time but he’s already disappeared. Can’t blame him in the least, although he’ll regret not sticking around.

Quickly, the woman returns with Bergamo. He dismisses her with a wave of his hand. It’s incredibly rude, but I can’t lie, it’s also incredibly fun to watch.

“What the hell are you doing here right now?” asks Bergamo.

“What do you mean? You invited me,” I say.

“The show’s literally starting in two minutes,” he says. “That’s what I mean.”

“Maybe we just wanted to wish you good luck.”

Bergamo looks over and up at Skip. There’s a hint of recognition. Or maybe it’s just the first twinge of unease.

“Oh, that’s right,” I say. “You’ve never met my brother. When you first started doing business with our father, Skip was already off at Valley Forge. Military prep school—go figure.”

“Two minutes!” a stagehand yells. “Two minutes to show!”

Bergamo anxiously looks over his shoulder. Models and makeup artists are gathering, waiting for his final approval. “I’m needed, but thanks for wishing me luck on the show,” he says.

“The show? No, that’s not what we’re wishing you luck on,” I say. “We’re referring to the trial.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, the trial,” says Skip.

“What trial?” asks Bergamo.

“Yours, of course,” I say.

“What are you talking about?”

“You were willing to sacrifice our father for money, so we suggested a trade of our own with the US attorney’s office.”

“Call it a prisoner swap,” says Skip. “You for our father.”

“There was just one problem, though,” I say. “Although we knew that you set up our father, we didn’t actually have the proof.”

“You’re damn right. Because it never happened,” says Bergamo.

“But it did, Enzio. You know what also happened? Your laundering money for Dominick Lugieri. Now, there’s something that can be proven,” I say.

Bergamo steps toward me, enraged, the tendons in his neck bulging above his collar. He wants to strangle me, kill me, but he can’t even reach me, as Skip steps in the way. Big brothers are the best. In Skip’s case, really big. He towers over Bergamo, who immediately backs off.

Still, I can see the wheels in Bergamo’s mind turning as he races to figure out the argument, the angle, the right-back-atcha moment.

As quick as a smirk, he thinks he’s got us.