Page 31 of The Picasso Heist

ONE THING I know: Never make a Bulgarian mob boss angry.

Skip can see it coming. He sounds the alarm, talking so loudly in my earpiece, I have to turn down the volume while walking out of the Echelon building. He’s telling me I should be meeting Anton Nikolov in a public place. Imploring me.

But we both know I can’t do that. I can’t risk being seen with Nikolov at this point.

“Then I’m coming along as backup,” says Skip.

Again, we both know I can’t bring him. I had to take a car ride out to Jersey with a pillowcase yanked over my head, followed by a gun pointed directly at my head, before I got the chance to see Nikolov. This is no time to introduce any new faces.

Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate Skip’s concern. But when my big brother goes into his little-sis-protector mode, all logic goes flying out the window.

“I’ll be fine,” I assure him.

“You better be, metalhead. Call me back right after the meeting.”

In the Uber over to Tribeca, I’m thinking about how Skip and I weren’t allowed to watch R-rated movies while we were growing up—or at least up until our father was sentenced.

It was his rule, and there was only one exception.

Or two, technically: The Godfather and The Godfather Part II.

Those we were allowed to watch, and the reason was simple: Our father, an art dealer, believed those two movies were masterpieces.

My guess is that Anton Nikolov is also a big fan, and if there’s a scene that speaks to him more than others, it’s when Tom Hagen, played by Robert Duvall, gets told by the big-shot Hollywood producer that Vito Corleone’s godson will never be in his movie.

Says Hagen on his way out: “Mr. Corleone is a man who insists on hearing bad news immediately.”

At least Nikolov isn’t making me go all the way out to his home in New Jersey.

Instead, he’s waiting for me in a penthouse apartment in Tribeca.

I assume it’s his, although I’m not about to ask.

Also not asking any questions is the doorman, who gives me a slight nod as I walk right by him. Clearly, I’m expected.

Now for the unexpected.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Nikolov says, his thunderous voice echoing throughout his huge, sparsely furnished living room.

His dress shirt is half unbuttoned, the chest tattoos of his brutal youth exposed, and as he speaks, one hand slashes through the air while the other cradles a scotch on the rocks. “How much did it go for?”

When I repeat the purchase price, even Blaggy, over in the corner, shakes his head. Nikolov is quickly running the math, but I try to be quicker.

“With an ARPL you can cover the entire buyer’s premium on top of the hundred forty-nine million, but, yeah,” I say, “the two percent rake for the insurance policy means—”

“That this bitch bidding against us just cost me an extra million.”

“Give or take.”

“No. It’s definitely take,” says Nikolov. He throws back the last of his scotch and nearly shatters the glass when he slams it down on an end table. “Who the hell is she?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

“How do you not know? You goddamn work there.”

“I told you, there’s no printed-up list of members.

And whatever list is sitting in some database, it’s not as if the file is labeled Membership.

That’s on purpose. Only a few people at Echelon know all the clientele, and even then, you have to account for special proxies.

They’re granted on a case-by-case basis. ”

“Then at least find that out, if she’s a proxy or not.”

“I can definitely try, but how’s that going to change anything? The good news is she bowed out.”

“Oh, yeah, great news. I’m always happy about coughing up an extra mil for an ARPL.”

“You’re the one who wants to keep the painting. The insurance angle was your idea,” I remind him.

I watch as Nikolov processes everything. He’s trying his best to focus on the big picture but he’s forgotten to tell his fists. They’re balled so tight, his knuckles look whiter than a J. Crew catalog.

Meanwhile, Blaggy’s trying to catch up. “What’s an ARPL?” he asks.

“It’s an all-risk-of-physical-loss policy,” I say.

“How much longer?” asks Nikolov.

“Until the policy is signed? I told you, it’s probably two days, maybe—”

“No,” says Nikolov, folding his arms. His eyes narrow until they’re as keen as a knife’s edge. If looks could kill… “How much longer before you finally tell me what you haven’t told me yet?”