Page 31 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

“You volunteered the leverage.” He taps the contract folder. “Signatures carry weight in my world, Mr. Moretti.”

The bastard’s calm needles me worse than yelling would. I school my face, remind myself that physical violence triggers worse consequences. “Fine,” I bite out. “We’ll be discreet.”

His mouth curves—not quite a smile, more a predator’s baring of teeth. He stands, adjusts his cuff links, strolls past. At the door he pauses, glances over his shoulder.

“Good boy,” he says, and saunters out.

15

NICO

I exitthe executive elevator thirty-three minutes later than planned, and I’m already rehearsing an apology to the global-sourcing team I left cooling on a Zoom call. I round the corner toward my office and nearly collide with Pietro Dumas.

He’s adjusting a cuff link like he has all the time in the world. The hallway’s soft LEDs catch the platinum silk of his tie—too flashy for legitimate business but perfect for dramatic theater.

What in the ever-loving fuck is going on?

I stop short. “Mr. Dumas.” The syllables taste like iron.

He offers a smile that never reaches his eyes, his voice flat and deep. “Niccolò. Good to see you keep late hours.”

My gaze skims past him. My door is ajar and frames Dante. He’s fuming, fists balled.

If I throw Dumas out, that may affect things with Tabitha, and I’m not willing to risk that. Stiffly, I ask, “Was there a meeting scheduled I wasn’t informed about?”

“Not at all.” He steps aside, leaving a sliver of path. “Just checking on my investment.”

Heat prickles behind my ears.Investment.The word has teeth. I count to three before speaking—a habit born of a lifetime smoothing Dante’s PR fires. “Tabitha is a person, not an asset.”

He straightens the knot at his throat, unbothered. “Ask your brother to brief you. I believe you’ll find the conversation…enlightening.”

Then he strolls past glass and bronze sculptures like he owns the floor. A flick of his wrist sends the elevator whisking him down. I won’t give him the satisfaction of watching me chase him, so I pivot into my office.

Dante sits perched on the edge of my desk, helmet and motorcycle jacket discarded. He’s rolling a silver paperweight over his knuckles—one of my awards for fiscal stewardship. When he sees my expression, he sets it down silently.

I close the door with more force than necessary. “Want to tell me why the head of the Dumas family just walked out of my office?”

“Correction,” Dante says, attempting nonchalance. “Ahead. Pietro’s the charming public face. Apparently, he wanted to see me.”

“In my office.”

He lifts a shoulder. “He was already parked in your chair when I arrived. He spoofed your phone to text me, faked a badge to get past security, spied on our guards to act like he belongs here… The man knows what he’s doing, Nico.”

I study him—loose posture, but tension radiates off his shoulders like heat. He’s rattled. Good. That means my instinctto panic isn’t an overreaction. I tug my cuffs straight and move behind the desk. The physical barrier helps.

“Details,” I demand.

Dante recounts the boutique surveillance video, Pietro’s warning about public embarrassment, the threat of contract forfeiture. He spares me none of the humiliating bits. By the time he finishes, a dull throb pulses behind my left eye.

“This is on me,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose.

Dante frowns. “How, exactly?”

“I’m the one who brushed off my instincts. Should have vetted every inch of that contract.”

He huffs. “We all signed. We’re all culpable.”

Perhaps, but paperwork is my kingdom. I should have stopped this. Allowing a crime family to have leverage over us is negligence of the highest order.

---