Page 27 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

This is more than my brain is comprehending.

Dante whistles as I gape. “You like?”

“Like?” I echo, craning my neck. “I’ve seen airports smaller than this.”

He slings an arm around my shoulders, steering me past a pair of hulking front doors carved with ivy and roses. “Welcome to the Casa de Moretti.”

The inside is just as lux, with marble floors, dark hardwood in all directions, and real art. Not the posters you buy in college to decorate your room. The real stuff on canvas. And statues. And tapestries. I’m afraid to breathe, or I’ll break something. “This place is impressive.”

“It’s home,” Dante says with a humble shrug. “I know it’s a little large, but we grew up here, so we like coming here during the holiday months to relax. Let’s get you unpacked.”

He takes me to my suite—and it is a full-on suite with my own bathroom, a living room area, and a fridge. Almost like my own studio apartment, every bit as pretty as the rest of the house. The walls are royal purple with gold crown molding, and even though that’s ostentatious, I kind of love it. More than that, I’m glad I’ll have my own space for this month. Gives me a place to cool off.

Upon unloading my duffel bag, I hear a low whistle. “What?”

Dante declares, “I thought we’d play naked Twister first, but no. First, wardrobe triage.”

I glance down at my bargain-store jeans and scuffed boots. “Triage sounds serious.”

“Critical,” he deadpans. “Imagine introducing you to a board of investors in those shoes. Nico would hemorrhage, then Sal would faint from the PR fallout.” He winks. “Let’s save everyone a trip to the ER.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m buckled into the passenger seat of Dante’s matte-black Aston Martin, hair whipping in the December wind while he navigates the streets like a man born without the self-preservation gene.

“You always drive like you’re auditioning for a spy movie?” I shout over the wind while I try to tie my hair up.

“Relax—my hobbies require quick reflexes.”

“Definehobbies.”

“BASE jumping, heli-skiing, the occasional volcano surf. Today, my thrill is haute couture.”

I laugh, half-terrified, half-exhilarated. Minutes later, we roll into the private entrance of an upscale shopping arcade closed toeveryday mortals. A greeter unlocks the frosted-glass doors as if Dante owns the place.

On second thought, he might, for all I know.

Inside, soft jazz pulses from invisible speakers. Polished floors gleam, and mannequins wear gowns that cost more than Grandma Judy’s house. Dante hands me a flute of something bubbly—“Hydration,” he claims—then summons a phalanx of stylists.

“Mission parameters,” he tells them. “Twenty-plus events. Black-tie galas to après-ski mixers. She needs everything—gowns, cocktail dresses, shoes, coats, the works. ThinkHollywood starlet meets alpine princess.”

I choke on champagne. “That sounds…expensive.”

He taps my glass. “We’ve got it covered, princess.”

“What do you…I can’t afford?—”

“It’s on me.”

I don’t know how to feel about that, but I guess looking good is a part of the job requirements. The clothes are work uniforms, nothing more. But every whirl of silk, cashmere, and feathers makes me a little giddy. I’ve never been too concerned with fashion—I’m just glad when I can afford to thrift shop—but now that it’s someone else’s dime? I admit it—I like pretty things.

One stylist instructs me to step onto a pedestal while another circles with a measuring tape. Dante lounges on a velvet sofa, offering running commentary:

“Yes to the amethyst. Brings out her eyes.”

“Lose the ruffles—she’s not a cupcake.”

“Higher slit. Investors need incentive to donate.”

I’m mortified and flattered in equal measure. When the team finally disperses to pull sizes, Dante beckons me toward a bank of mirrored dressing suites framed in gold.

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