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Castellano said, "Do you seriously think you can fool me?"
The target's mouth twitched. "Excuse me?"
"You son of a bitch," Castellano gritted out.
The crowd gasped. The journalists perked up. The security at the doors tensed.
The target tried to recover, but Castellano's finger stabbed the lower left of the painting. "This is not the piece I paid for," he said. "This is a forgery."
Half the room went dead silent. The other half started whispering.
The target's face drained. "Dominic, let's?—"
"Don't. You. Fucking. Dominic. Me." Castellano's accent grew thicker as he lost control. He waved his hand, summoning his own expert. A petite woman in a velvet blazer hurried forward, pulled out a jeweler's loupe, and examined the edge of the canvas.
She turned. "Mr. Castellano is correct," she declared. "It is not authentic."
Flashbulbs popped. The media smelled blood.
The target tried to speak—tried to explain, to improvise, but Castellano wasn't having it. "You will be hearing from my lawyer."
The next minutes went wild. Security circled the target and the painting. Castellano raged, staffers scrambled, and the crowd morphed from audience to jury.
I slipped away toward the kitchen, then ducked into the restroom, ditched the uniform, changed into my leather jacket, slapped on my hat, removed the fake beard, and stuffed it into my pocket to burn it later. No DNA left behind was my main rule.
I covered my face with a bandana as I walked briskly through the corridor and toward the rear exit.
There was no need to see the rest. I knew how it would play out. The target's public image would be ruined and Castellano would make sure no reputable collector would ever work with him.
I felt the old pulse settle on my way to my bike. Not relief—just a cold, clear sense that the world had clicked into its correct shape, if only for a minute.
Tonight's task was done.
Tomorrow there'd be a new job.
17 kimmy
I was cross-legged on the couch with my cell in my hand. On the coffee table in front of me, sit two things—a cold mug of tea and the burner phone. I was supposed to be relaxing— during our last session Dr. Carney said time off was vital forintegration, as if anyone could integrate their before and after.
But I couldn't stop scrolling.
My thumb worked the screen with speed and urgency I typically reserved for late-night panic attacks.
Every news site, every aggregator, every bottom-feeder blog was running the same headline.
Venture Capital Star and Art Connoisseur Jerico Thorne Ruined in Picasso Forgery Scandal
I clicked the links out of compulsion.
I read variations of the story multiple times, and each time the facts seemed to get sharper, the edges cut deeper. The language was surgical and humiliating—words likemastermind,deception,catastrophic breach of trust.
There were pictures of Thorne's face—before, during, after. The after was the best. He looked haunted, sleep-deprived, the lines around his eyes like knife wounds. His jaw was clenched. The editor had chosen well.
I felt something again. Not joy. Not relief. Something tighter, like the twist of a screw that had never been flush.
The burner was distracting, beckoning me to pick it up.
I ignored the urge and scrolled further, past the quoted analysts, thespeculations, the snide comments from former colleagues in their interviews.
