Episode 1: The Playpen
Ivan Masters stared into the elaborate silk-lined casket, avoiding the audiences attention as he studied his father's peacefully closed eyelids.
Must be nice,
he reflected.
To be eternally spared this bullshit.
Nobody made him move, nobody questioned the time a son needed to mourn his father, but he could feel the eyes of his family pressing into his back as the time went on, the warm summer air making sweat bead down his shirt collar.
Maybe they questioned it. At least a little bit.
It'd been years since they'd all seen each other, and when he finally took his seat in the front row beside the rest of the weary-eyed Masters family, their silence was like a physical force. Even the guests noticed their stiffness, the whole front row radiating quiet, dangerous energy.
Ivan ignored everyone, looking straight ahead as yet another university professor gave a speech.
"...Today we shall lay to rest a brother, father, and husband. And most generous patron of the arts..."
Ivan didn't know much longer he could bear it.
His attendance was requisite, of course. He'd just lost his father in an unexpected accident at a museum, but it didn't mean he felt a shred of emotion for the man. He was here for one reason, and one reason only, and that was to start divvying up the mans assets.
Starting with the company.
Hours passed as the funeral went on in the same manner, the sun casting reddish rays across the lawn as hundreds of people - most whom he'd never met in his life - approached the casket and paid their final respects, before returning to one of the many rows of seats set out on the grass.
People would be expecting a speech from him later that evening, as the only son of Laurent Masters, and now heir to his impressive banking fortune, but the prospect of waiting around for several more hours while a bunch of ivory tower assholes talked about 'the good old days' sounded like a form of torture. So he slipped out of a delivery gate at the back of the grounds the moment he could get away unnoticed, and pulled out his phone.
Call it a need for stress relief, but he wasted no time calling a Lyft bound for the Playpen.
"The Playpen" was a nickname for a boat harbor off Lake Michigan in downtown Chicago. An infamous hangout for the young and wealthy, it was not uncommon to find ten or twenty yachts roped together like a giant floating nightclub on any given evening. He'd been visiting for years with his real estate buddies, and found the loud music and summer air hypnotic and strangely comforting, especially now.
Stepping out of the Lyft, the humidity hit like a wave. He was overdressed for the summer weather, in a black suit and dress shoes, and it quickly made sweat peak his forehead. He rubbed strands of loose black hair from his eyes as he walked to the pier, the thumping music and swaying lights of the yachts already visible offshore.
The Playpen was only a speedboat ride away from the dock, but it felt like stepping off the plane to Vegas. The rules were different out here, the alcohol, drugs, and girls abundant. As soon as he pulled himself onto one of the bobbing crafts, a red solo cup of cheap vodka and Gatorade was thrust into his hand by some glossy, bare-chested college jock. Ivan rolled his eyes at the sight of the boy, but took the shot anyway, shrugging out of his suit jacket as he picked a path through crowds of sweaty, dancing bodies.
He had to cross two makeshift dance floors to get to his usual hunting grounds, a forty-seven foot yacht called
Blueface
, which was owned by one of his friends. He hadn't been on deck more than 2 minutes when a megaphone crackled over the sound of the music, and a spotlight beamed down over the crowd.
"Is that my boy right there?
Eve-auuuughn!
