Page 30 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

She groans, head dropping back. “Damn.”

I laugh, kiss her once more, then disentangle myself. “Try everything on. Leave nothing in a box. I’ll be back later, and you can demonstrate gratitude to your heart’s content.”

She salutes. I snag my helmet from the hall table, and her soft humming follows me down the staircase.

I hate leaving her, but I’m happy to help Nico. Twenty-four minutes later, I’m threading the Ducati through thin traffictoward the Moretti Brands tower. The sky’s pewter, the air knife-cold, but acceleration warms my veins. Never let it be said that I left my brother in a lurch.

I badge through lobby security, ride the elevator to the executive floor, and shove open Nico’s door with a jaunty, “Alright, CFO, whose Excel formula broke?—”

I stop dead.

That’s not Nico. Instead, Pietro Dumas reclines in his chair, polished oxfords propped on the desk like he’s measuring for a custom footrest.

My pulse spikes. “You lost, Dumas?”

He slides a look over the rim of Nico’s reading glasses. “Found exactly what I wanted, Signor Moretti.” His voice is velvet ice. “Take a seat.”

I stay standing. “Security in this building tends to spot uninvited guests and remove them quickly. Can’t imagine what’s keeping them.”

“Door codes are easier to bypass than you imagine. As are people.” He waggles Nico’s phone. “Spoof one phone, one badge, say hello to security like you’ve known them all their lives, and suddenly everyone and everything in the building thinks I’m family.”

“I’ll be sure to fire whoever you spoke to?—”

“Don’t blame them, Dante. It’s not their fault that I got to know your security team online before I ever stepped foot here. Besides, you have dozens of cousins. How were they supposed to know better?”

A sliver of unease skates down my spine. He’s not here to talk about our security team. He’s here to prove his power, that even our own building isn’t safe.

Fine. I’ll bite. “Making house calls isn’t standard customer-service procedure. Something wrong?”

“On the contrary. I always visit high-value bidders to remind them what’s at stake.” He taps a button on his phone and swivels the screen toward me.

The image punches the air from my lungs. Clear-as-day boutique security footage—me kneeling between Tabitha’s thighs, her gown around her hips, my mouth skimming downward. It’s time-stamped just hours ago.

He’s got eyes on us everywhere. “Nice angle. Too bad you couldn’t see what I was seeing.”

“Surveillance covers every square foot of my partner boutiques, and if you think I couldn’t, you’re sorely mistaken. I played this part of the footage to spare further impropriety.” He slips the phone back into his jacket.

My blood is boiling. “What’s going on, Dumas?”

“Think of it as an insurance policy.”

“Insurance against what?”

“Harm. Humiliation.” He steeples his fingers. “Publicly embarrass Miss Calloway—say, a leaked video of a dressing-room romp—and I will void your contract.”

“Her head is tipped back like that out of pleasure. Not harm. Have you never gone down on?—”

“Embarrassment counts as harm. If this footage were to leak, do you think she’d be happy about it?”

I swallow. The bastard has a point.

“You’ll forfeit controlling interest in Moretti Brands if this comes to light. This company would look rather handsome in my portfolio, don’t you think?”

My jaw tightens. “She wasn’t embarrassed. She was enjoying herself. And you’re the only person with the footage, right?”

“Intent is irrelevant. Perception is the metric.” His shoes shift, heel scuffing Nico’s desk—deliberate disrespect. “Keep your private funprivate. No cameras. No leaks. No headlines.”

“You don’t get to threaten my family’s company over consensual sex.”

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