Leave it to the Crownes to have champagne and liquor circulating the room. “It’s about time you got here,” Keaton said, giving me a quick hug after we both plucked a shot of tequila off the tray the waiter was circulating. When she noticed me, I discreetly waved her over.

However, I didn’t have time to mingle yet. I scanned the crowd of people, spotting my friend talking to a bunch of her lawyer friends, many of whom I was cool with, too. Although I’d known of the Crowne family my entire life and Aunt Figgy had been a cook at the Crowne estate for longer than I could remember, I had only recently begun getting close to a few of the Crowne family members, Keaton in particular. They were involved in a plethora of … questionable investments and business ventures, but I guess with wealthy businessmen, politicians, and the police force in their back pockets, they could really do whatever the hell they wanted to do in Chicago if they played their cards right.

In typical Crowne fashion, it seemed the entire city was in attendance, which was pretty damn impressive considering that the Crowne family was the kind that folks tended to fear. Polar bear ice sculptures came into view when I made it toward the right side of the room, finishing off the winter wonderland look. Midnight blue, deep purple, and white floral arrangements accentuated with silver pinecones decorated the space, and there wasn’t only one grand Christmas tree, but several strategically scattered around. Even before I was fully into the ballroom, I could hear the holiday music and noticed sheer, white drapes circularly hanging from the outer edge of the ceiling, offering a uniquely intimate divide to the large room. Not that many knew I had a date given I was meeting my boyfriend at the gala.

It was the first time I was attending with a fine ass man on my arm as opposed to going solo.

I attended the event every year I was in town, but this year was extra special. The Crownes, Chicago’s own hood-royal family, were hosting their annual charity gala. “Tonight, I’m fucking Santa Claus,” I muttered to myself as I made my way into the Aon Grand Ballroom at Navy Pier, more than ready to manifest my goal.

Two Dirty Santas by Sherelle Green