Page 12

A Big, Bad Wolf

SAVVINE

T he Veleno di Sogni floated off the bow of the Venantia Eterna .

Eugene Bianchi’s infamous luxury yacht was a gleaming, sin-soaked marvel of opulence.

The drake ship inspired design came complete with the carved head of a dragon mounted on its stem.

Its hull, crafted from polished obsidian alloy, featured trims of gold-laced bracings that caught and refracted starlight like a gaudy mirror ball.

The outer decks glittered with neon rails, while soundproofed music thudded from its underbelly in a slow, bass-heavy rhythm that never quite stopped.

Cruising along the port side of the Eterna , the ship purred with quiet arrogance.

As if it belonged to a better class of vessel, untouchable, lavish, and unbothered by the grit of survival that plagued the rest of the convoy.

The moment the pressure lock hissed open and Savvine stepped onto the marble-veined deck floor, her nose wrinkled.

She caught the scent of spiced cigars, spilled cocktails, and the powdery bloom of koko misting through the recycled air.

She blinked against it, coughed, and wished for a mask filter.

Can’t believe this glorified hovel belongs to the man I was once promised to.

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.

Thank fokk her 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 the Eterna ?’

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.’

‘ Sante boss,’ 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 the Eterna of pizzo protection 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.

One powdered his chest with shimmering koko .

While another sucked vapor from a jeweled pipe and blew it in his direction like incense offered to a deity of depravity.

A high-tempo track throbbed through the speaker as bodies gyrated in a temple of self-indulgence.

Savvine’s stomach turned.

Does he even know that his people are dying for him each week? she thought. Does he have a clue of how many Bianchi loyalists have broken bones and bled in his name to keep this party barge afloat?

He glanced up, eyes lazy and glassy with pleasure, a slow smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

‘Well, well,’ he purred, lifting his glass toward her. ‘If it isn’t my almost-wife.’

She didn’t blink, nor smile, suppressing a twist of disgust on her lips.

‘Eugene,’ she said, stepping into the velvet-wrapped den of excess, ‘we need to talk.’

Eugene received her with the kind of oozing, slurred charm that only came from being three drinks deep and twenty lines past sober.

With a clap and wave of his hands, his glittering, giggling acolytes disappeared into a koko cloud.

A privacy shield dropped as he grinned, teeth stained purple from the liqueur sloshing in his synth-glass.

His eyes, glazed and lazy, ran over her, but underneath the intoxication, she detected a flicker of calculation still alive, coiled like a snake that only pretended to be asleep.

‘My sweet, fierce protector,’ he drawled, arms stretched like he might rise to greet her, though he didn’t. ‘Have you come to scold me? Or join the party? Plenty of room on the divan.’

She stepped closer, ignoring the smoke and the haze of snowy drug powder in the air. ‘I’m here to request you to petition the Syndicate Commission.’

That elicited a snort. ‘I don’t plead, sweetheart. I suggest.’

‘Then propose this,’ she snapped. ‘They must haul Signet into an inquiry. To investigate whether they’re supplying illegal weapons to the Lombardis, such as Hades -class banshees. Our enemies have them, and our people are dying as a result.’

Eugene’s laughter bellowed, rising from the sunken pit of his chest.

‘Forget it,’ he sniggered. ‘We need Signet on our side. Do you want to survive the next cycle of warfare, or do you want to send our people in with antique cannons and duct-taped shielding? They’ve got a floating shipyard the size of a moon, Savvine.

They have access to Sable Group tech, real Pegasi-grade armor.

They can build us a new frigate. Maybe three. ’

She blanched.

‘They can’t be trusted,’ she bit out. ‘You think they’re only building for us? You think they’re not supplying the Lombardis, too?’

‘Are they?’ he said, sipping. ‘Because last I checked, Signet provides neutral and sophisticated protection for more than half the flotilla. I’ve been relying on you for the same, but from what I see, you’re failing on the job.’

There it was, the rub, the blame-casting.

She clenched her jaw as she took a step forward.

‘I’ve kept the Bianchi legacy secure over the last two years.

We’ve had fewer crime incidents this past quarter than any other in five years.

Murder is at 30% lower than it was the previous month, robbery, breaking, and entering are down too.

Petty public offenses are almost negligible, and we’ve wiped out most of the old pizzo extortion rings. ’

‘All that tells me is that you’re an internal security specialist with zero capability to play with the big boys outside.’

She bit back the urge to surge forward and slap the grin off his cocksure face. Or better still, tackle the man to the ground, but she inhaled hard and kept her temper in check.

‘We can’t fight what we can’t see, not when the missiles being lobbed at us are illegal as all hell. Let me find the evidence that Signet is behind this, and we can take it to the Syndicate together.’

Eugene’s smile vanished.

She didn’t see his hand move.

The laser gun just appeared, with no warning, in his hand, its barrel pointed between her eyes.

Click .

Followed by the whine of the next laser energy charge cycling up.

She took a shaky breath. ‘What are you playing at, Eugene? Put that toy away.’

He ignored her, waving the firearm at her.

‘Are they our enemy?’ he drawled. ‘Or are they not?’

Click .

She didn’t flinch, but her jaw locked so tight her molars ached.

Click .

‘You’re bold,’ he muttered. ‘Always were. It’s what I like most about you.’

Click .

The weapon fired.

This time for real, blinding light flaring from the barrel

Suddenly, arms went around her, unseen, and she was enveloped in a grip of muscled strength.

Her body was shifted to the side, as Eugene’s pulse laser blasted past her temple, close enough to singe the skin.

Milliseconds later, the grasp around her shoulders released, and the sensation of the arms enfolding her disappeared.

She fought a gasp even as Eugene grinned up at her, lounging back like he hadn’t just played a dicey dance with her life.

Somehow, he hadn’t sensed any other presence in the room.

The weapon vanished into the folds of his velvet coat as if it had never existed.

She thought she saw a flash of violet lightning pulsing in the air, but when she blinked, it was gone.

What in Hades’ hell?

Eugene was speaking, and still swaying, she fought to focus on him.

‘You work for me,’ he murmured, his words razor-edged now. ‘So does your father. Your mother. Your brother. Your best friend Lelah, in hydroponics.’

The threat was as soft as silk and as cold as death.

He tossed his cigar to the floor, reached beside him, lifted a chrome briefcase, and flipped it open with a flick of his lotioned hand.

Revealing stacks of high-denomination schills plus a notary scroll bearing the commission crest was already marked with his sigil.

‘Go to Alexandr Roman on the down-low. Buy us a ship, one of his new Class-4 interceptors. If you say one word about illegal weapons, if you embarrass me or cost us this deal -.’

His smile shifted into a cruel, menacing slash.

‘Don’t come back.’