I stumble off toward the bathrooms. Sure enough, my eyes are watering from vomiting and my mascara is smeared as if I were giving an enthusiastic blowjob in that alley.
Daniela had no problem with that—it’s what she expected me to be doing. It’s the lack of care in my appearance that she can’t abide.
Rocco’s spit in my mouth was almost as bad as the alternative.
I wash my mouth out at the sink, rinsing over and over until I’ve recovered the ability to swallow without heaving.
I don’t like this new demand from Rocco, but I don’t see how he can enforce it. I agreed to marry him after graduation. I never said we’d be best friends at school.
He leaves me alone the rest of the night, and I think that’s all he has in store for me. I think I got off relatively easy.
The next morning my father and stepmother breakfast with Dieter and Gisela Prince, to see them off before they head back to Hamburg, and no doubt to discuss details of their new collaboration.
I’m not invited. My spirits begin to rise, knowing that I won’t see Rocco again until I board the ship to Kingmakers.
When we meet again, I’ll have friends around me—Anna Wilk and Chay Wagner, for instance, who shared the same dorm with me Freshman year. They’re formidable women, both proper Heirs who will actually inherit their families’ businesses instead of being given the title in name only and then immediately married off.
Anna will run the Polish mafia in Chicago—she’ll have a dozen Braterstwo under her command. Chay is the Heir of the Berlin chapter of the Night Wolves, a Russian motorcycle gang. With those two girls beside me, I’m not afraid to face even Rocco and his friends.
That is, until my father calls Cat and me down to his study.
I hate entering my father’s office. This is a place I’m never invited unless I’m in trouble. Cold sweat breaks out on my skin just stepping foot over the threshold.
Cat is even more frightened. Her teeth are rigidly clenched to keep them from chattering.
We enter his study, which is dark and oppressive, the walls lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves in ebony wood, most of their spaces filled with fossils instead of books. My father is immensely proud of his collection, which includes several dragonflies preserved in limestone, the pelvis of a wooly rhinoceros, and a full archaeopteryx.
I’m not looking at any of that because I see Rocco Prince standing next to my father. Rocco is dressed in a dark suit and tie, with a ruby pin in the lapel that glimmers like a droplet of blood, as if it fell from the corner of his mouth.
“Sit,” my father says, indicating the chairs in front of his vast, gleaming desk.
Cat and I sit down, while my father remains seated in his own grand chair and Rocco stands next to him, like a king and his executioner.
“Your fiancé is worried about you,” my father says, glaring at me from under his grizzled eyebrows. “He says you were in low spirits last night.”
I chance a swift glance at Rocco, trying to guess his purpose.
He’s punishing me for slapping him last night. But what does he want, exactly?
I don’t know how to reply. Arguing will only get me in more trouble.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Rocco says you were unhappy all last year at Kingmakers. He said you seemed lonely.”
My eyes dart back and forth between my father’s scowl and Rocco’s smooth, impassive face.
What is this game?
Is he trying to get me to promise to fawn over him at school?
Is he trying to get me to drop out? No. . .Rocco still has two more years at Kingmakers. He wants me there where he can keep an eye on me, I’m sure of it.
“School was new and different at first,” I say, cautiously. “But I think I adjusted eventually.”
“Your fiancé disagrees.”
I clench my hands hard in my lap, my mind racing. I don’t know Rocco’s angle, so I have no idea how to try to counteract it. My father’s clock ticks away on the wall, maddeningly loud.
My father clears his throat, looking between my sister and me. “After some discussion, I’ve thought of a way to make you more comfortable in your Sophomore year.”
I try to swallow but my mouth is too dry. “What?” I say.
“Cat will be attending Kingmakers with you.”
Cat gives a terrified squeak in the seat next to mine.
Before I can stop myself, I cry, “What? You can’t!”
My father’s face darkens and his head lowers like a bull about to charge. “Excuse me?” he says.
I see the flicker of a smile on Rocco’s lips. I’m playing right into his hands. By challenging my father, I’m only entrenching his decision.
I try to backtrack. “I only meant . . . what about Pintamonas? Cat’s already been accepted—”
“She’ll go where I tell her to go,” my father growls.
“I’m perfectly happy at Kingmakers! I’ve adjusted already, Cat doesn’t need to—”
“Art school is pointless,” my father interrupts. “Rocco has been telling me all he’s learning at Kingmakers, the variety of skills taught amongst the various divisions. Cat is timid. Cowardly, even. It would do her good to learn the real work of the mafiosi. If only so she can appreciate what her husband does, when the time comes.”
Cat gives me a desperate, pleading look, begging me to think of some way to get her out of this. I’ve told her how challenging Kingmakers is, how brutal it can be. For me it’s a welcome distraction. For Cat it will be hell on earth.
“Please, father,” I say, “Cat is delicate. She could get injured—”
“It’s time for her to toughen up,” my father 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,” he says. “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.