Page 32 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

I rub a hand over the throb in my temple. Pietro is no philanthropist. If he’s dangling threats this early, he wants a reason to seize the brand—preferably with plausible deniability. Get the brothers to trip a clause, swoop in, take control.

“Sal needs to know,” I say.

“He’s at a board-prep dinner with Legal.” Dante checks his watch. “Let him finish the meal. We’ll brief him at home.”

I nod—reluctant but pragmatic. “Security upgrades?”

“Already texted two white-hat hackers.” He taps his phone. “Firewall audit by morning.”

I exhale. One crisis managed, a dozen more lurking. “After you get them to paper over the security team’s social media accounts, go home. I’ll finalize what I have to do and follow.”

He pushes off the desk. “Tabitha’s rattled. I texted her about Pietro’s little visit—figured honesty beats rumors.”

I stiffen. That disclosure feels premature, but damage is done. “How rattled?”

“Enough that she asked if there could be fallout for her family.” He grimaces. “I gave reassurances, but you’re the credibility brother. She’ll want to hear it from you.”

Great. Add emotional crutch to tonight’s agenda. “I’ll do what I can.” I always do.

Dante pockets the paperweight—then thinks better of it, sets it back, and strides out.

When the door shuts, I fold forward, elbows on the desk, palms over my eyes until I remember Pietro sat here. I reach for disinfectant wipes—a ridiculous gesture, yet scrubbing the smudges helps. When the surface gleams clean again, I breathe easier. Order restored—cosmetically, at least.

A calendar alert chimes:Asia e-commerce forecast due Monday.I silence it. There’s only one forecast that matters tonight—likelihood of a Dumas takeover versus our ability to steer this month without triggering a fucking clause.

When I’m home, it’s a breath of fresh air. At least I know Pietro won’t show up here, and if he does it won’t be for long. Carla, our beloved housekeeper, would end him. None of us are dumb enough to cross that woman, and she’d never give us a reason to.

The villa is quieter than usual, hall sconces dialed to a golden glow. Tabitha’s suite door is ajar. I knock. “It’s just me.”

She’s curled on the window seat in flannel pajamas, knees to chest, hair spilling over one shoulder. The golden lighting in her room makes her hair appear as if on fire. A box of macarons sits untouched beside her. When she sees me she straightens, trying to mask anxiety with a smile. “Hey, CFO,” she says, faux casual. “Back from saving the empire?”

“Always a work in progress.” I step inside and cross to the window. Cold moonlight washes her features. I perch on the opposite end of the window bench, leaving polite distance. “Dante told me he mentioned Pietro’s visit.”

She nods, worries the hem of her sleeve. “Is the company really at risk because of me?”

“No.” I keep my tone definitive. “Moretti Brands stands on solid ground. Pietro’s threats rely on contract technicalities. We simply won’t breach them.”

She exhales. “Okay.” A beat. “What if he finds another clause or whatever?”

“I will anticipate every clause by morning.” It’s bravado, but she needs certainty, and—if I’m honest—so do I. “It’s nothing for you to worry about, sweetheart.”

Her gaze searches mine. “You seem so calm.”

I offer a wry smile. “Internal panic rarely solves external problems.”

“No, but it’s okay to be human, Nico.”

Her words hit hard, weirdly. I’m drawn not just to the curve of her smile or the way her eyes catch light like a secret, but to the sharpness beneath it all—the insight that cuts through my usual defenses. Tabitha doesn’t just listen. She hears.

I swallow to disguise any emotion in my voice. “I won’t pretend this is trivial. Please understand that you did nothing wrong, Tabitha. Any risk comes from my oversight.”

She shakes her head. “I agreed to the contract too.”

“Under extreme circumstances. My brothers and I should have protected you from hidden landmines.” Anger at myself burns behind my ribs. “We will—from now on.”

Something shifts in her expression. She inches closer on the bench until her socked foot brushes my thigh. “Thank you, Nico.”

I’m not prepared for the jolt her nearness delivers. All day, spreadsheets and crisis scenarios have insulated me from feeling anything but frustration and anger, and now her softness penetrates the façade. I clear my throat, intending to stand—but she slips her hand over mine.

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