Page 10 of Kingmakers, Year Two

My father could not possibly care less.

“It’s time for her to toughen up,” he says ruthlessly. “I’ve made my decision.”

Rocco made the decision, more like. Then he manipulated my father into thinking it was his idea.

I don’t want to look at Rocco, but I can’t help myself.

I turn my full, furious stare on him.

He smiles back at me, showing his sharp white teeth.

“Don’t worry, my love. I’ll take care of your sister. . .”

2

MILES

For Iggy’s album drop, I throw the biggest party of the summer at an old charcoal factory in Bucktown.

I’ve thrown some ragers, but this one tops them all.

I call in every favor I’ve got to get The Shakers to do the opening set. That’s crucial to bring in top-tier guests and to give the impression that Iggy is even more famous than the most popular band in Chicago.

I set up the stage and sound system on the roof, preemptively bribing the on-call cops to ignore any noise complaints.

Then I pack the guest list with models, influencers, musicians, and photographers, plus all the sexy young socialites from my parents’ circle, warning them not to tell anybody about the private event so I can be sure they’ll message every last motherfucker they know.

I get the swag bags on the cheap, bartering with friends who want to put their luxury goods in the hands of the Chicago elite.

And finally I liberate a freight car of Bollinger from the rail yard, because I want fountains of champagne, and there’s no way to get the top-shelf stuff for a reasonable price.

There’s no better place for a party than an old factory. The vast open spaces, the hulking furnaces in the corners, the raw concrete walls and the bare beams overhead . . . it gives that sense of gritty authenticity you could never find in an event center. The glitterati want to feel like they’re slumming it, and the actual artists need to feel at home.

I’ve got four of my boys running security.

Much as I want the appearance of an out-of-control bacchanalia, everything needs to run smooth tonight. Iggy is about to sign a seven-figure deal with a record label in L.A. They want music from the streets, but no actual criminal charges attached to their newest star.

I’ve known Iggy since we were kids. His dad used to chauffeur my father around when he was mayor of the city. Iggy and I would crowd into the glassed-off front seat, playing music and fucking with the lights, while my parents rode in the back, strategizing for the night ahead.

Iggy is wildly talented. His hooks are catchy, and his rhyme schemes so dense and interconnected that I feel like I have to listen to his songs five times over before I can truly appreciate them.

Iggy’s a sweetheart, more poet than gangster. His only personality flaw is his willingness to trust the wrong people.

Which leads us to the biggest tripwire of the night—Iggy’s piece-of-shit uncle.

“Declan Poe doesn’t get through this door,” I say to my boy Anders, nodding my head toward the double steel doors at the entrance. “If you see him, you call me. Don’t wait for him to cause trouble.”

Anders nods. Beckett and Anders are built like twin refrigerators. They could handle a small army on their own.

I run the party like a maestro in front of an orchestra. I deploy the drinks, the food, the music, the lighting, and the flow of guests with obsessive precision, while creating the illusion of free movement and free choice.

I glide through the crowd, introducing fame-hungry models to sleazy producers, brilliant videographers to marketing reps. Every connection is a new favor in my pocket as I hook people up with exactly what they need.

I hype Iggy up, too. He hates performing, gets nervous every time.

“It’s not even a concert,” I tell him. “People are just here to hang out. There’s no pressure.”

There’s a metric fuck-ton of pressure. More pressure than the San Andreas fault. But it won’t do Iggy any good to hear that.

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