Page 1 of Ravage

1

ROMAN

Roman Kalashnik watched the city pass by on the other side of the Escalade’s tinted windows and had to remind himself that he’d chosen to be here.

He was a thirty-eight-year-old man. And not just any man. Roman was the son of Igor Kalashnik, pakhan of the New York bratva.

That alone might not have been enough to earn him any credibility as a man with agency. The bratva was filled with the spoiled children of gangsters whose grandparents had fought their way to wealth the hard way so that their children and grandchildren could polish their facade to a shine and party with A-list celebrities and rock stars.

They were imprisoned by their family’s money. By their names.

They just hadn’t realized it yet.

Roman wasn’t like them, although from the outside, there were similarities.

They’d gone to the same private schools, had attended the same Ivy League universities. They wore designer clothes and drove luxury cars. They could walk into the most exclusive restaurants in the city and get a table without a reservation and they owned penthouses and brownstones safely tucked under the names of shell companies that would take the US government years to unwind.

And yet, only Roman had been raised by the man next to him.

His father. His tormentor.

“You will be gracious of course,” his father said, as if he’d been privy to Roman’s thoughts.

It had always been that way: Igor looming large, a physical presence who had the power to inflict pain, to beat and to cut.

To burn.

And a mental presence too. The demon Roman couldn’t seem to exorcise.

“Of course,” Roman said, turning to look at him. “I’ve chosen to come.”

His father blinked, as if humoring Roman’s belief that he had any choice, and Roman forced himself to breathe against the rage that tried to fight its way out of his chest.

If he were like his peers, the children of Russian oligarchs and gangsters — they were the same thing really — he would plan a night of partying to get it out of his system. He would drink and do an assortment of drugs, avail himself of one — or more — of the many women who were dazzled by the money and power of modern aristocracy.

Instead he would tolerate this sham of a meeting to arrange his marriage to Valeriya Orlov. Then he would attend another meeting, one that would hasten the demise of his father’s reign.

The thought soothed him, and he drew in a deep breath as Dima, one of his father’s primary bodyguards, pulled the car to a stop outside a nondescript building.

Konstantin exited the passenger seat to open Igor’s door while Dima did the same for Roman. Konstantin’s presence added insult to injury. Roman’s father couldn’t even attend to this — a meeting to discuss his oldest son’s marriage — without Kon striding behind him.

Then again, this wasn’t a normal pre-wedding meeting. It was all business, and Konstantin Rykov was always in Igor’s business. Roman would have to be careful with Kon when he took control of the bratva.

Dima returned to the car to wait, and a doorman opened the glass doors leading to a lobby plainly but luxuriously appointed with marble floors and smooth white walls.

It was a kind of reverse smoke and mirrors. Roman knew the building was private, six floors of imported marble, designer furniture, and every amenity, including a heated swimming pool. Viktor Orlov had bought it five years earlier for forty-six million dollars and it was only one of several homes he owned around the world.

But Russians living in America had learned to be quiet about their wealth in recent years. Best not to draw attention to oneself.

It was an adjustment Roman’s father hadn’t had to make. Igor had always been less flashy than his peers, preferring the traditional grandeur of the house in Brighton Beach and the brownstone in Brooklyn that was Kalashnik headquarters over the conventional glitz of those like the Orlovs.

It was one of the few things Roman admired about his father.

Two men in suits flanked the elevator. One of them used a keycard to open the doors, then keyed in a code as Roman, Igor, and Kon entered the elevator.

The doors closed in front of them, and they glided upward.

“Let me do the talking,” Igor said.

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