By Miriam R. Kramer

With record-breaking temperatures sweeping the country at large, take a vacation where you can read near a pool, the beach, or any other cooling body of water. Or you can plant yourself in an armchair in the A/C anywhere and pick up a recent thriller such as King of Ashes, by S.A. Cosby; or The Doorman, by Chris Pavone.

S.A. Cosby’s King of Ashes plunges readers into a world of familial loyalty, dangerous debts, and the dark underbelly of seemingly ordinary lives. While undeniably fast-paced and brimming with a visceral energy that evokes classic gangster epics, the novel ultimately struggles under the weight of its own sensationalism, leaving a deflated impression despite its narrative drive.

The story centers on Roman Carruthers, a brilliant money manager whose quiet life is upended when his ne’er-do-well brother, Dante, racks up significant drug-dealing debts with local gangsters. When these thugs deliberately cause a car accident that puts his father into a coma, Carruthers comes home from Atlanta to the town of Jefferson Runs near Richmond, VA, to help solve Dante’s problems and protect his family.

The looming threat isn’t just to Dante, but to the entire Carruthers family, including his sister Neveah, who diligently runs their family crematorium—a business that unexpectedly becomes entangled in the criminal underworld. Roman is compelled to step out of his carefully constructed, upperly mobile world to protect his loved ones, drawn into a conflict far more brutal and unforgiving than he could have imagined.

At the same time, Roman and his family are plagued with memories of their mother, a nurse who mysteriously disappeared when the siblings were in their teens, setting up a family malaise that has affected all of them. While her brothers sort out Dante’s terrible mistake, Neveah finally takes up the challenge of finding out how her mother disappeared.

Cosby’s prose certainly moves with a relentless urgency, pulling the reader through one high-stakes confrontation after another. The Godfather vibes are palpable, as Roman, like Michael Corleone, quickly discovers that while getting involved in the affairs of gangsters might be surprisingly easy, extricating oneself is an entirely different proposition, demanding everything he has to give when it comes to his family. This core premise holds promise, and Roman’s internal struggle between his moral compass and his protective instincts is gripping.

However, the book often tips into a realm in which it is difficult to suspend your disbelief. The sheer scale of the violence and the convenient coincidences that propel the plot forward sometimes strain credibility, making the narrative feel more sensational than just gritty. What begins as a tense family drama quickly escalates at times into melodrama, which can be a downer for readers looking for a more nuanced approach.

The constant barrage of peril, while contributing to the pace, leaves one feeling emotionally drained rather than satisfied. While its rapid momentum might appeal to some, King of Ashes is a ride that, for all its speed, sacrifices depth and plausibility for a more jarring, albeit propulsive, experience.

Chris Pavone, renowned for his intricate international thrillers, shifts gears slightly with The Doorman, delivering a novel that explores the captivating, often uncomfortable, dynamics within the gilded, blatantly racist and class-conscious cage of a famous West Side apartment building. Pavone provides a stark portrayal of societal divides, and the communities associated with the building, from the Bohemia’s doorman, Chicky Diaz, and other blue-collar workers to its millionaire and billionaire occupants. These include Emily Longworth, a billionaire’s trophy wife worth much more than her beauty or sum of her parts.

The book serves as an exceptionally sharp-eyed, sometimes funny and frequently negative social commentary, making it a compelling read for anyone interested in a study of current urban society. Pavone shows the hypocrisy between the performative wokeness in the elite schools the robber barons’ children attend, often echoed by their guilt-ridden rich wives, and their own MAGA leanings. He also reveals the chasm between rich and poor through Diaz, who struggles in paying for healthcare, schooling for his children, and rent. Diaz observes the efforts of diligent nannies, housekeepers, and menial workers who support this unequal structure.

That increasing gap frequently fuels violence, as these segregated populations own guns that allow them to feel safer when it comes to groups that frighten or provoke them. Pavone is making a point: guns cause more trouble than they are worth for any community, and our own atomization creates fear that promises more violence than it does protection.

The novel skillfully explores the symbiotic yet profoundly unequal relationship between these two groups, peeling back polite facades to expose the unvarnished truths of interactions between the haves and have-nots, or even the have-less. Those realities often include the breathtaking racism and separation exhibited by those on top, free of any need to moderate themselves or connect on a personal level. It’s a fascinating, voyeuristic look into the microcosm of a luxury building, where power, privilege, and personal struggles play out daily.

For readers who devour Vanity Fair and Town & Country, or Grayson Carter’s incisive online magazine, Air Mail, The Doorman will feel tailor-made. So will those who have experienced societal costs that threaten to overwhelm them. Pavone’s keen, sometimes contemptuous, reflections and witty prose capture the essence of New York inequities. He delves into the unspoken rules, the casual dismissals, and the quiet dignity that define the interactions of the building’s personalities.

Despite its often angry tone, The Doorman’s insightful social observations make it an engaging and worthwhile experience. It’s the kind of book you can easily get lost in, perfect for the summer. Pavone offers a highly readable and rewarding exploration of privilege and precarity in the heart of New York. The Doorman represents an extreme but in many ways realistic example of those fighting to achieve the American dream, which can feel like a prison or shooting gallery despite its luxury.