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He gave her a brisk nod. ‘Chief.’

‘Mak,’ she echoed.

Damn. No wonder they won their trials and Syndicate legal battles with aplomb.

Xander nodded toward the next man. ‘Rigo Aldana’s our money man. Strategy, bribes, logistics, he sees the game five moves ahead.’

Rigo’s olive-gold skin and high cheekbones were stroke-worthy.

His amber eyes appeared flecked with amethyst shades, and he trained his eyes on her like he could see her ledger.

His hair was deep violet, short on the sides, and tousled up top, as if he never bothered to smooth it after pulling off a heist.

Shifting formulas, codes, and sigils were inked on his arms.

He wore matte onyx trousers and a collared shirt that was open at the throat, revealing a hint of clavicle and gold jewelry.

He winked. ‘Welcome aboard, Chief Bianchi.’

Xander kept going. ‘Zev Cruz is our weapons and resources fixer.’

Zev nodded once, his wild violet locks to one side of his shaven head, worn in defiance of convention.

His eyes were obsidian-black with a glint of crimson. Beneath his caramel skin, shimmering gems pulsed at his temples and the base of his neck, living tech embedded into flesh.

His jacket was sleeveless, revealing lean arms traced with schematic tattoos, and he wore utilitarian boots that appeared weathered by far too many planets.

Somehow, despite the chaos of his look, he radiated control.

‘You need it? I get it,’ he rasped, sitting down.

Xander pointed to the last two.

‘Boaz Garcia, our engineer. Makes miracles out of wreckage.’

Boaz was a tank of a man, massive and scarred. Even his hands were the size of a forge hammer.

His skin, carved with old battle burns and tribal code work ink, was sun-bronzed even in space’s sterile light.

His dark orchid tresses were caught in a coiled bun, above a strong brow.

He wore loose cargo pants, a thermal vest, and a faded flight jacket half-unzipped.

His hazel gold eyes were kind, a striking contrast to the rest of him.

Boaz grunted a greeting. ‘Good to have you here.’

‘Last but not least,’ Xander said with a glance that carried an edge of fondness, ‘Kaal Essen. Mak’s younger brother. Head of security. He prefers to stay anonymous as does Mak, thus thelast name Essen instead of Sauvage, choosing us instead of an incredible fortune, inherited wealth, andfokk-you privilege.’

Kaal leaned against the table’s rim, chewing a toothpick, golden war-ink trailing across his brown skin like fire gods etched it.

His amethyst and sable hair was shorn and shaped in a cropped cut.

His eyes were electric amber, feral and intelligent, with just enough amusement to make Savvine wonder whether he’d start a fight for fun.

He wore combat-grade trousers, an open utility waistcoat over a bare chest, because, of course, he did, and unusually sexy unlaced boots.

Savvine raised a brow. ‘Security, huh?’