Page 87 of The Picasso Heist

THEY’RE BOTH COMING at me at once.

Nikolov has his arms out, ready to strangle me, but it’s only Blaggy I have to worry about. He’s an actual gunslinger, and in his outstretched hands is his Glock, quicker than quick.

There are only two words that can keep me alive right now, and they’re not Don’t shoot.

“It’s fake!” I yell.

Nikolov freezes. Blaggy does too. For a moment, my one chance to explain, they remain as still as statues. In Blaggy’s case, he’s a statue of a guy with his Glock aimed at my chest.

“Talk,” says Nikolov.

Adrenaline speeds up everything in the body but I’ve got to fight it. Fast talkers are bullshit artists, and I’m not getting a second chance to explain why there was never a real Picasso.

Deep breath. In… out… go!

“I needed you to bring down Bergamo,” I begin, then explain what Bergamo did to my father.

Nikolov squints, taking it all in. “So he screwed over your dad,” he says, “and your genius idea is to screw over me?”

“But that’s the thing,” I say. “You’re not getting screwed over. What you’re about to get is a gift.”

“A gift, huh?” Nikolov folds his arms. “I can hardly wait.”

“I don’t blame you for not believing me,” I say. “You have no reason to trust me anymore.”

“I never trusted you. You had something I wanted.” Nikolov motions to the wall. “The first thing I did when I brought that painting home was shine one of those black lights over the entire thing, the same light your buddy Werewolf used at the museum.”

“Wolfgang.”

“Whatever his name is,” he says. “The point being—”

“You wanted to know for sure. Yeah, I figured you might do that so I got Wolfgang to swallow his pride when he was making your copy. What you have is an unsigned duplicate of an original Wolfgang forgery.” I point at the gaping hole in the canvas.

“And it’s worth just as much now as it was when I walked into this room. ”

I watch as Nikolov nods, smiling. He thinks he’s got me pegged.

“You’re telling me all this because you know Bergamo’s willing to do anything to avoid jail.

He’ll cut a deal, spill his guts. So this is your Hail Mary.

Because you knew that once I found out you and Bergamo set me up, you’d be as good as dead.

Which is why you’re here desperately trying to cut your own deal—so I don’t kill you.

But you’ve got nothing I want in return, Halston. Absolutely nothing.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” I say. “In fact, you’ve got it all wrong.”