Ravage

I had opened my mouth to say as much when Zaal said slowly and with force, “I would not betray this family. I am a warrior; if I were to cross your rule, I would face you head-on, not hide in the shadows.”

I sat back in my chair and watched the Pakhan’s eyes narrow. Eventually he sat forward and pushed a glass of vodka at Zaal. “Now that is clear, I believe there could be another theory.”

“What?” my father asked, but Kirill was still boring his gaze into Zaal, waiting for my brother to take the drink. Zaal sat straight in his seat, his huge size dwarfing the chair. His fingers were gripping the wooden arms and I could see the anger in his face. But he forced himself to push out his hand, and without dropping his gaze on Kirill he took the shot.

As the glass slammed on the desk, Kirill turned to my father to answer his question. “I have been thinking. Does it not seem strange to you that we”—he pointed at himself, then Zaal—“or Mr. Kostava has received no payback for Jakhua’s death?”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop at the mention of that man, the Georgian cunt who had used Zaal as his personal puppet for twenty years, the man who beat my sister and took her love from her.

Kirill continued, “The Jakhuas, though they had little presence here in New York, are a large clan. They are powerful in many places, and no doubt have ‘associates’ that would be disappointed their supplier of the obedience drugs was disposed of by us.” Kirill held out his hand and began counting off. “Sex traffickers, underground fight rings, black-market slave traders, and any other undesirables that wanted to bring people under their control. Is it not strange that Jakhua was killed by our hand, yet not one strike against us has been taken in the months since his death?”

“And now a Georgian plane has landed in New York, landed without our permission.”

Kirill raised his eyebrow in response and said, “If I die through an enemy’s attack, I have deals with the Italians, the Irish, and the Jews to respond on my behalf. Hell, I even have the British mob on hand, too, should my potential killer’s reach stretch that far.”

“You’re questioning who Jakhua had in his pocket?” my father finished for the Pakhan.

“Exactly,” the Pakhan replied. “Jakhua was not a stupid man. He will have had all his cards in a row before coming to New York. He knew what his appearance here would mean to us. So, if he was even half the man I think he was, he will not have failed in securing his revenge, should the event of his death occur.”

I inhaled a deep breath when my father looked across me to Zaal and asked, “Can you remember any of the men you demonstrated the drug for? Any of the men that watched you kill for Jakhua? His closest associates?”

Zaal dropped his head, his eyes closing as he racked his brain. His knuckles turned white and his fingers shook as he tried to remember. I watched as his back bunched with tension, until he released a defeated breath and shook his head. “I remember nothing but nameless faces. The drugs, the drugs wiped my mind until I awoke in the basement of the house in the Hamptons with Talia. But there were many people Mast—”—Zaal shook his head and corrected, “Jakhua traded with.”

“It would make sense that his closest ally was a Georgian. Question is, beyond the Jakhuas and Kostavas, who is there that is strong enough to threaten the Volkovs?” my father asked, his unapologetic disdain for the Georgians lacing his voice.

“That is the question,” Kirill responded. “Which Georgian group has managed to remain unseen? What Georgian organization has lived so far underground that we, the greatest crime family in the world, have no reference for it?”

I sat listening to the conversation, then said, “Jakhua’s generals, his guards, his top men, should have come after us, but no one did.” I could feel all eyes on me when I snapped my head up and said, “Unless they were assimilated into another brotherhood.”

Kirill this time smiled wide at me and nodded his head. A wash of pride ran through me at the Pakhan’s obvious praise. “Exactly, Luka. The Jakhuas must now belong to someone else. But who?”

A memory of Anri suddenly came to mind. “Anri, just before we fought, told me that he had been picked up by a Georgian mob. They captured him and made him fight.” My mind raced as another realization hit. “And they must have known about the gulag Anri and I were kept in. They came for him after the escape. They knew he was a death-match fighter.”

Kiril looked to my father, who nodded his head. “I think Luka could be right.”

I turned to Zaal to hear his thoughts, but his head had dropped. I knew it was because I had talked about his brother. The brother he still had little memory of.

“So,” Kirill said, clearly bringing the meeting to a close, “it looks like we have a new Georgian threat on our hands. Which means heightened security for us all. Because make no mistake, if these Georgians have made it into New York unseen, have kept their existence a secret, they most certainly pose a real threat.”

Kirill ran his hand over his face and addressed Zaal. “Maybe it is time that the Georgians were made aware that the heir of the Kostava Clan is alive. Maybe those that pledged loyalty to your father should be told you have survived, survived and killed the man that massacred your family.”

Kirill rose from his chair and walked round his desk, to stand before Zaal. Zaal kept his head down, and Kirill added, “Survived and are ready to take your rightful place as the Kostava Lideri. As a joint venture with the Volkovs, of course. The Georgian underground is not so large that whisperings among your people have not mentioned this other mob. If we show the people their king has risen from death, the hidden peasants that worked under your father will flock to us, and, in turn, so will this mob’s identity.”

Kirill leaned back against the edge of desk and folded his arms. I glared at the Pakhan. There was no way Zaal would be ready for this. No one knew what it was like for us to suddenly have to live in this free world. And what was done to Zaal in his captivity was the worst of all.

I had moved my mouth to say so when Zaal rasped, “I am not Lideri. I was born to lead with my brother, together; without him I will not take the seat of my house. I am not the man I was destined to be. My people deserve more than me.”

Zaal kept his head lowered, his long black hair hiding his face, when my father said in an authoritative, but fatherly, voice, “You have a brother, Zaal. He sits beside you, ready to take on this family’s seat, too. You are a Kostava, but you are soon to be joined to my daughter. I would say that even with what you have both gone through—Luka and yourself—you are exactly where you were meant to be.”