Helsinki, Oslo, and I crowded around a billiards table. The moon was out, the crickets were serenading her, and the room's chandelier flickered in its low light. In a team of mostly Spaniards, we were the obvious foreigners and we made a game out of it. Them because of their Serbian accents and me because of my Mongol face.
"You teach us Spanish every time we score, okay?" Helsinki ribbed, sinking a number 8 ball into one of the corner pockets. Oslo nodded his approval. I watched as he bounced the one ball off one of the stars, failing to win another point, and handed me back the cue.
"Driving a hard bargain there," I said, bouncing the white ball against another corner and ruining his earlier strategy, "I'll have to think about it."
"We be nice," Oslo offered.
Honestly, I wasn't against it as long as it wasn't too much work. I like to live life at an easy pace, you know? Then again - most of my cons were run solo or with minimal outside assistance. Teamwork has a habit of getting messy. If I had to choose people to work with, I'd rather choose brawn over brain. Being out-punched is painful, being outsmarted is downright humiliating.
Not to mention, it's a good idea to be chummy with others involved in crowd control. They'd be the metaphorical stick and I'd be the metaphorical carrot. Good cop, bad cop, whatever. A slaughterhouse by any other name still spells death for sheep.
I laid the cue stick down on the table and leaned against it. Two solid fortresses of muscle blinked back at me. Pure, violent potential. It was easy to forget about when they were busy teasing you and laying down the law via a friendly game of billiards, though.
Helsinki mimicked my pose, exaggerating the way I cupped my chin, and smiled at me. Seeing a bearded man (probably twice my weight) mimic me had me burst into laughter.
"Okay, okay. You got me. This Mongolian woman will be your Spanish teacher. Just fix up my Russian and we'll call it even."
"Is a deal. You get lesson ready now," Helsinki said, satisfaction creeping into his tone.
I threw my hands up and made a show of exiting the living room. My bedroom was upstairs and I figured, hey, why not actually bring a notepad down? I'd write in Old Mongol script instead of Spanish to fuck with them but I'd still need a pen and paper.
/
Moments before I stepped into my bedroom, I overheard a conversation definitely not intended for my ears. The source of the noise? The Professor's room. The speakers? Our lovely mastermind and my lovely would-have-been husband.
"I want to know why you recruited her of all people. Enlighten me."
Curious. I wasn't crossing off the possibility that he might've been questioning Tokyo's role on the team. She didn't have a great record, lacked a particular niche, and wasn't someone else's bargaining chip. But, the angry quaver in Berlin's voice hinted at deeper-set effect.
"She was the most qualified one I could trust, Andres. You know what it's like working with con-artists; they're double-edged swords by nature," The Professor said, "and this one has the least incentive to betray us."
Okay, that crosses Tokyo off the list.
"Tell me, have you ever touched her before?" Berlin said.
There was a startled pause from The Professor. Also worth noting, there was a startled and borderline-offended pause from me, too.
"Excuse me?" The Professor said.
Berlin laughed. It was a bitter sound. I imagine he shook his head, too.
"Next time you talk to her, put your fingers on her wrist and press for a pulse," he said, "You won't feel the usual ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump. No."
There was the gentle clink of a wine glass being set down on a table. He paused for dramatic effect. The Professor and I remained silent.
"You'll feel nothing—because she's heartless," Berlin said.
Ha-ha, ouch! Straight through my allegedly empty chest cavity.
The Professor started up but failed to compose any convincing rhetoric. There was a long, uncomfortable silence. I kept my gaze trained at the end of the corridor. If there was an approaching shadow, I'd have to enter my bedroom and give up on following the rest of the conversation. Hopefully, Helsinki and Oslo would continue to play billiards without me.
Berlin's next words were cold but his tone wavered like the final flames in a bonfire. His theatrics evaporated. Anger is an accessible emotion; unlike sorrow, it's a force—but even his fury flickered. Raw hurt and betrayal simmered in the air.
"Don't tell me you're doing this as an act of mercy for me, little brother," Berlin warned.
Oh. I knew he had a little half-brother but, admittedly, I baulked at the thought of meeting - or even seeing - any of his family. We were due to meet on the day of the wedding, which I knew right from day zero of the engagement that I'd disappear before. So sorry, baby. Maybe in another life, I would've met him before today.
"I'm not," The Professor said.
No names, no personal questions, no personal relationships—but you still want your big brother to make amends with the absolute angel of a woman who broke his heart and never looked back?
At the sound of approaching footsteps, I peeled away from The Professor's bedroom door and made my way into my room. The conversation stayed on my mind for the rest of the night.
See, it's easy to fall into the psychopath trap, assume the worst of my ex, and label him one if you don't know him. It's not my job to tell the truth; it's usually the opposite. However, if I had to vouch for one thing in my life, it's that Berlin isn't a psychopath. That's bullshit.
A mansion-robber, yes. Jewel thief, yes. Bit of a prick, yes. A man bursting at the seams with narcissistic tendencies, sure.
But, Berlin believes in love—and I don't.