Page 19 of The Picasso Heist

THERE’S BETTER ITALIAN food to be had on the Lower East Side of Manhattan than the heavy red-sauce-and-garlic fare offered up at Osteria Contorni.

But for authentic old-school Italian ambience, nothing else comes close.

The fact that the restaurant still uses vintage Chianti wine bottles, the kind with straw wrapped around the base, as candleholders says it all. Time moves a little slower here.

So do the staff. There’s not a single out-of-work actor playing the role of waiter at Osteria Contorni.

Nor are there any females. These guys are lifers; each one seems to be older than the next, and all of them have a slight hunch to their backs from leaning forward to take orders all these years.

They joke, they bicker, they bust balls, but they always look out for one another.

No one ever pockets a cash tip for himself.

No wonder it’s Dominick Lugieri’s favorite restaurant.

Over here, mouthed one of his crew to Malcolm when he walked in, motioning with a fat finger. The guy was standing by a red door next to the nearly empty coat-check room. August in New York City is the definition of sticky. Not a lot of layers being shed.

The closer Malcolm got to him, the more the guy squinted. He was looking at the open cut across Malcolm’s cheek, the streak of blood.

“You should see the other four guys,” said Malcolm.

It was a waste of a good line. Dominick Lugieri’s front man hadn’t been chosen for his sense of humor. He didn’t even crack a smile. He just pointed with that same fat finger at the red door. He wanted Malcolm on the other side of it.

That’s where the full pat-down happened.

It was a narrow hall with another red door on the far end.

Malcolm spread his arms and got treated to all ten fat fingers, head to toe.

Satisfied—no weapon, no wire—the guy pressed a small buzzer on the wall and motioned for Malcolm to keep walking.

The second red door opened, and that’s when Malcolm saw him.

The man himself, Dominick Lugieri. Eating a bowl of pasta e fagioli.

Of course a man like Lugieri never eats at a restaurant alone, even in his own private dining room at his favorite establishment. There were, count ’em, one, two, three henchmen hovering near his table.

Lugieri angled his spoon on the side of his bowl and eyed Malcolm up and down, then up and down again. He could clearly see the cut and blood on Malcolm’s cheek but when he spoke, he didn’t ask about it.

“We have a mutual friend,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

Lugieri had a bit of a belly but was otherwise in decent shape for a fifty-year-old guy who had survived two attempts on his life.

Two attempts that made the papers, at least. “Our friend tells me that you’re good, but all my guys are good. So do you know why you’re here?”

“Our friend wouldn’t tell me,” said Malcolm.

“You’re here because you don’t look like all my guys.”

That got a snicker out of the one with a short ponytail of jet-black hair who was standing off to the side of his boss. His teeth were crooked, his nose was crooked, and his pockmarked skin suggested the surface of the moon. Plus, his ears were huge.

“You’ll have to forgive Carmine here,” said Lugieri, pointing. “He doesn’t like outsiders. And he really doesn’t like pretty boys.”

Malcolm turned and looked square at Carmine. “I wouldn’t either with a face like that,” he said.

The acoustics in the room were such that the laughter erupting from Lugieri’s other men sounded even louder than it was. One was cackling like a hyena.

“Fuck did you say?” asked Carmine, taking a step forward.

Malcolm didn’t flinch. There was a fine line between crazy and brave. “You heard me, Dumbo,” he said.

The men howled again with laughter, only now it was joined by disbelief. Did the kid really just say that?

The cut beneath Malcolm’s eye dripped a drop of blood as Carmine came at him. Again, he didn’t flinch. Not even as Carmine balled his right fist, raised it high, and landed it square against Malcolm’s jaw, knocking him down.

But only for two seconds.

There was something about the way the new kid rose to his feet—the whole room saw it. The pain didn’t show on him. There was no stagger, no wobble. Just a smile.

“That one was free,” said Malcolm. “Any more, you gotta pay.”

The warning was lost on Carmine, his rage rendering him deaf and blind.

He wound up again, his fist a blur, but Malcolm was more than ready for it; he ducked beneath Carmine’s second swing and immediately rose up with two quick jabs and a roundhouse punch that landed so hard against Carmine’s chin, you could hear his teeth crack.

The next sound was Carmine hitting the floor with a thud.

Now the room was silent. That should’ve been the end of it, and they all knew it. All of them except for Carmine. Slowly, he pushed himself to his knees. He spit out blood. He spit out half a tooth. He reached for the sheath strapped against his ankle and removed the blade.

“That’s enough, Carmine,” said Lugieri.

The boss had spoken. But humiliation can wreak havoc on a man’s hearing.

Carmine lunged with the knife. He was fast but Malcolm was faster, grabbing Carmine’s wrist and sweeping his legs in one motion.

In the blink of an eye, Carmine was flat on his back, the tip of the knife now an inch from his own throat.

Carmine was a dead man if Malcolm wanted that.

But he didn’t. Malcolm straightened up and turned to Lugieri, who was out of his chair. Lugieri walked around the table and hovered over Carmine. When he spoke, he was looking down at Carmine but clearly talking to the other men.

“I told you that was enough,” said Lugieri. “Never make me say it twice.”

“I’m… sorry,” said Carmine, his voice trembling.

But it was too little, too late for his boss. Pffft. Pffft. Lugieri fired two shots through the Banish 45 suppressor attached to his Glock 19, right between the eyes of Carmine’s ugly face.

Lugieri turned to Malcolm. “Looks like we have an opening,” he said.