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Bitter memories from over a decade ago washed over her.

Eighteen and hot-headed, she’d almost spat blood when she first got wind that the Bianchi clan elders were trying to secure her marriage to Eugene.

They argued it was a necessary pact to preserve the genetic lineage and legacy of the family.

Thankfokkher parents had rejected the idea, as had her apparent groom.

‘I prefer many queens,’ Eugene famously said at the time, drunk and shirtless, ‘not just one.’

It was the only thing they ever agreed on, then and now, regardless of what Helena Bianchi wanted.

She shivered, shaking the thought and woman from her mind as she stepped deeper into the bowels of Eugene’s cruiser.

Deep, velvet-red lights bathed the corridor ahead, pulsing in rhythm with thundering, screeching dance music she shuddered at.

She nodded to the security personnel, men and women she knew by name.

Some had even served under her prior to being poached by Eugene’s glittering paychecks and promises of a cushy protection detail on a floating palace.

‘Stark,’ she greeted one, bumping a fist with him.

‘Chief,’ he jerked his chin, a flicker of emotion in his eyes. ‘Any chance I can transfer back to theEterna?’

He lowered his voice and leaned in to speak into her ear. ' This place is killing me.’

She took an inhale. ‘I’m so sorry to hear. I’ll note it with Leiko and see what we can do.’

‘Santeboss,’ he grinned. ‘You’re the best.’

‘Don’t you know it,’ she smiled back at him.

Not all the guards were as warm as Stark.

A cluster near the inner atrium didn’t mask their glares.

Most were staunch loyalists of a Syndicate-aligned faction who believed that family ruled over all else and that blood oaths were better than policy.

They hated what she stood for: precision, discipline, and transparency.

They also loathed that she was cleaning the house and ridding theEternaofpizzoprotection rackets and mafia rules, like in the old days.

She ignored them.

Let them scowl. Let them cling to their fading myth of power.

She sauntered into the central lounge of the ship, designed like a nightclub.

Then she spotted the reason for her visit splayed like a bored god across a monstrosity of a divan.

It appeared upholstered in genuine leather, its armrests carved with Arkanite crystal.

Eugene sat with his shirt hanging open, draping off one shoulder like an afterthought.

His torso gleamed, tanned and waxed, his hair a cascade of dark curls greased into decadent waves, his neck ringed with antique gold and black opals.

A synth-glass of crystalline green liquor dangled from one hand, a fat Cubano in the other, in the clutch of fingers adorned with gaudy gems.

Women lounged around him, laughing and cackling, their glitter-streaked bikini-clad silhouettes pressed close.