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Then he turned his gaze and zoomed his cerebral sight on the stricken vessel’s ark ship that hovered closer to his position.

TheVenantia Eterna, the Eternal Vow.

Almost fifty kilometers long and plated in hematite-black ion skin, it moved with the slow, implacable grace of a creature that had long outgrown its predators.

Spires rose from its dorsal hull like a ruined crown, jagged and adorned with the glowing sigils of the old Terran mafiosi.

The vessel bore the Bianchi logo, a lion with two crossed daggers, inlaid in gold over its central dome.

Cities pulsed inside its walls, as did farms, ports, vaults, weapons silos, and red light sectors, a veritable floating empire.

The first generational dreadnought ever built by a mafia family after the Great Apocalypse.

A levitating fortress carved from the bones of Earth’s last orbital dry dock.

Along with the Syndicate flotilla, the Bianchis fled the stricken planet with their wealth, wives and children,capos,killers, and a reputation that still made rival clans whisper in the darkness of space.

Xander arched a brow as fighters screamed out of the rear bays of the mega dreadnought, hornets out of the hive of a celestial leviathan.

He honed in on the action as the swarm of angry wasps headed toward the glowing wreckage ofThe Odalon.

He tilted his head when his side hatch whooshed open.

A lean, muscled man ducked in, broad-shouldered and covered in swirling dark purple ink that traced his thick arms and neck like war paint.

His blackberry-hued hair fell to his shoulders, eyes a shade of gilded violet.

Santiago Alvarro, Xander’s XO, was pure muscle, all sinew, suave, smooth as the first bourbon, yet under fire, he was the wolf you wanted on your six.

They bumped fists.

‘Boss,’ Santi greeted, voice gravel-wrapped.

‘Brother,’ Xander murmured, gaze still locked on the chaos outside.

Santi handed him a steel cup. ‘Kahawa. Still hot from the coils.’

Xander took it with a grunt of thanks, sipping once before watching Santi drop into the co-pilot’s chair and throw his boots up on the polished console.

‘Feet off.’

Santi grinned. ‘I leave no scuff. I’m stealth, baby.’

Xander sliced his flaming violet eyes at his companion.

Santi sighed and lowered his boots with a smug smirk, folding his arms behind his head.

‘Your dust-up with the Lombardicaposwas epic. Sorry, not sorry, I missed it. I was taking a nap. I viewed the footage, though, and they don’t call us the star wolves for nothing.’

Xander’s jaw clenched.

When he finally spoke, his growl was quiet but coiled. ‘Fokkersthink they can come for an alpha, they get what they deserve. They’re down three wolves, but still, they’re getting reckless, attacking patrol boats. Now,TheOdalon,the Bianchi’s best frigate interceptor. Gone. Shit’s getting wild out there.’

‘Tis,’ Santi said, nodding toward the bloom of flames. ‘Snuck in when the security grid cycled for just seconds. It was a surgicalstrike, showy asfokkand a pure insult. Exactly as our contact last week foretold.’

Xander’s jaw ticked. ‘What else did your CI share?’

Signet’s extensive network of eyes and ears across the flotilla was designed to ensure the company was always one foot ahead of its clients and neighbors on this hazardous journey.