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‘For a fee,’ Savvine complained. ‘If you’re not on their books, they don’t care about you, and we have not required their services so far, even though the other cartel and mob houses test us.

The Castiglianos have been moving freighters without clearance into Bianchi laneways.

I’ve filed three obstruction reports this week alone. ’

‘What about the Commission? Can’t you raise a petition?’

‘They’re Lombardi and Castigliano sycophants, bought and bribed into inaction.’ Her tone sharpened. ‘Those two families have been stuffing Syndicate pockets for years. Now they’re turning it into their own private council. Fokk , we -.’

‘ Nada , my loves.’

Her mother’s voice cut clean across the conversation, firm and warm and impossible to ignore.

She butted in, wrapping her arms around them, shaking her head.

‘We are at a wedding,’ she said, eyes narrowed as she sliced them from husband to daughter. ‘Which means no scheming, i miei amori . No Syndicate gossip, no security chatter. Nada war talk. One night of peace, please. For the children, if not yourselves.’

Right on cue, a thundering pack of nieces and nephews charged the trio, bright-eyed, frosting-smeared, shrieking Savvine’s name with joy.

‘Auntie! Come on! You promised ice cream!’

With a sigh, she let herself be dragged by small, gummy hands toward the glowing gelato cart between two floating dessert stations.

She cast one last glance at her parents as they pulled her away. Her father gazed at her with concern, as her mother folded her arms with a tight but satisfied smile.

For now, she focused on the laughter, sugar-sticky grins, and affection.

Tati, the smallest one, slipped her hand into hers without asking.

Tomorrow might bring more missiles.

However, tonight was all about raspberry delight and pistachio swirl.

The guests shimmered in their finery, but even beneath the glitter and glow, Savvine spotted the lines etched into faces and the slack in shoulders that had been too long under tension.

This was no ordinary wedding; this was a celebration in exile, joy in defiance.

Underlining the resistance on display, General Arasteh, handsome and suave, a career shipman and a single silver fox who made the ladies swoon, stood near the central dais.

Three aides in iridescent black uniforms flanked him.

He was not born Bianchi, but a contracted ark ship captain.

So far, he’d steered them well while keeping out of clan politics as much as possible.

His gold-stitched epaulets gleamed beneath the deck lights, and though he laughed when someone offered him an additional glass of star whiskey, his piercing gaze never stilled or dulled.

Every so often, his fingers twitched at his side, likely scanning through silent data feeds via his neural node.

Also, a prominent presence was the ship’s security detail, all under Savvine’s command.

They didn’t care about subtlety. They were positioned close to exits, vents, or apertures that might present a breach risk.

Savvine’s second-in-command, Leiko, had one hand placed on the piece at her side, eyes darting across the crowd like she expected it all to unravel.

The rest of her team’s formal jackets only partially concealed their holstered phase blasters and vibro-knives.

It was slightly overboard, but Savvine sensed a reckoning was coming, her skin prickling with prescient foreboding.

On a generational ship the size of a city, traveling in a convoy with similar-sized vessels, where food, oxygen, and politics were always tight, putting out fires was de rigueur.

Most times, Savvine was the one extinguishing them.

This made her a dab hand at picking up on the warning signs.

Also, her life experience and surviving a nuclear apocalypse on Earth taught her that too much peace and happiness were harbingers of doom, the calm before the storm.

Her soul’s restlessness persisted as she nodded to passing officers and old friends, then slipped away, needing a break.

She made her way from the edge of the celebration, the laughter and champagne flutes fading behind her, and ducked beneath an arched colonnade strung with ivory blooms.

She headed in search of comfort, in the form of a freakin’ stiff drink.

Savvine was almost to the bar when a dulcet, silky voice slid into her ear.

‘Savvine, a word?’

She turned. Her spine stiffened instinctively as she faced a thin, elegant woman shimmering in a gold silk gown that draped over her shoulders.

The dress clung to her stately frame like a second skin, its elongated sleeves edged in antique lace, the neckline dipped but impeccable.

Diamonds clustered along her collarbone like frostbite, rings of rubies and emeralds stacked on her fair, painted fingers.

Her complexion was porcelain-pale, unlined by time, though Savvine suspected enhancements, and her long silver hair was coiled in a perfect chignon, veiled with a comb of sapphires.

Behind her, two silent attendants in crested blue robes and a pair of stone-faced armed guards flanked her.

‘Donna Helena,’ Savvine said, bowing her head with the expected respect required for the clan’s matriarch.

Helena’s lips curved into a practiced smile as she drifted closer, the heavy scent of myrrh and rosewater clinging to her like power. ‘You look lovely, dear, as always.

‘ Sante .’

Savvine accepted the compliment with a nod, pulse steady, already calculating the safest escape.

‘Days like these,’ the matriarch said, her intonation syrupy and low, ‘and wedding celebrations like this one, remind me of the offer my family put to yours.’

Savvine’s brow lifted by the barest fraction. ‘You’re referring to Eugene?’

Helena’s simper had edges. ‘Naturally. Any chance of reconsidering?’

Savvine let out a quiet breath, careful not to sigh out loud. ‘With all due respect, I don’t believe Eugene shares that particular ambition.’

‘What if he does?’ Helena whispered, her utterance brimming with veiled suggestion.

Her gaze locked onto Savvine’s with such intensity that the sensation was that of a vice tightening around her skull.

This was no conversation. It was a maneuver, a move on the board.

Savvine weighed her words with caution.

One wrong syllable, and this dialogue might spin into a full-blown family feud.

‘I find it interesting that you think a security officer’s life would suit your son’s lifestyle, Donna. I spend my days in weapons training and briefings. Not the life of a lady.’

‘You’re smart. Tactful and very beautiful, and you meet the bloodline requirements,’ Helena intoned. ‘Let’s explore the idea. Hmm?’

Before Savvine had the chance to respond, the woman leaned in one last time and tapped Savvine’s cheek, her voice like razors beneath velvet. ‘In the meantime, cara , keep yourself pure .’

With that, Helena turned, silks sweeping behind her like a tide of judgment, and strolled away with her entourage, exiting the wedding with a wave resembling an imperial empress.

Savvine stood still, jaw tense, hands curling at her sides.

Pure?

Fokk.

It was no secret that Helena Bianchi had always despised intermarriages between clan members and metas, shifters, and enhanced pedigree.

She’d spoken openly, and often, about the ‘tainting’ of the Bianchi name.

To her, the future was not fusion; instead, it reeked of regression.

She desired a restoration of untainted bloodlines, sanctioned unions, and arranged alliances.

Savvine had caught whispers that Helena was aligned with the conservative hardliners on the Bianchi elder council, many of whom were calling for the return of blood feuds.

Since her husband’s death, Helena has never stopped clawing for dominion of the family estate like a lioness who denied her throne.

She warred with her peers, made backdoor deals with rival clans, and, if rumors were true, ran an illegal koko farm somewhere deep in the flotilla’s dark decks.

Savvine had no proof of it yet.

Still, one thing was certain. Helena was dangerous and would not stop until the Bianchi name was restored to her vision of dynastic supremacy.

Savvine’s pulse steadied as the woman disappeared from the ballroom’s doors.

She didn’t trust Helena. She also had no desire to marry her feckless playboy son.

Still, the woman was conniving, so Savvine would keep a close eye on her from now on.

Just as she was about to hit the bartender for that much-needed drink, a voice murmured behind her.

‘Keep your face straight, woman. We’ve got a problem.’

The voice came from her six.

Savvine didn’t jump.

Her nerves were well-trained.

However, her heart fell once when she swiveled to see Abby, one of her dearest friends, sporting a stricken look on her face.

She met the dark, curly-haired woman at university, and they instantly clicked, and since then, they’d always had each other’s backs.

Also the Eterna’s chief comms officer had her shit tight when it came to her role, and Savvine trusted her without doubt.

Now, she slipped up beside her, face pale.

Savvine clocked the worry in her blue eyes, braced and facing out, leaning on the bar counter.

‘If you’re interrupting me during the most important wedding of the year with a report, whatever you’re about to share must be freakin’ serious. Hit me,’ Savvine murmured, her gaze still sweeping the room.

Abby didn’t answer immediately. Pursing her lips, vexed, which only ratcheted up Savvine’s concern.

‘Speak, woman. What’s going down?’

On the ballroom floor, dancing partners whirled, glasses were tipped, couples kissed, and music swelled.

Abby leaned in, her breath hot against Savvine’s ear as she whispered, ‘An attack. Don’t look now, but it’s blazing through the starboard view.’

Savvine froze. All sound became distant as static buzzed at the edge of her senses.

‘Where now?’ she muttered.