Page 35 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

“I’m more experienced, sweetheart. I should have had more self-control.”

The humor fades from her eyes as she sits up. “Nico, I mean this in the nicest way, okay? I’m not some innocent or a kid who doesn’t know what they’re doing. Yes, you’re more experienced than me, absolutely. But I made this choice with you. Don’t treat me less-than just because I’m new at this.”

I reach up for her cheek while something cracks in my chest. “I meant nothing of the sort, Tabitha. In a scene, I’m used to being in charge, which makes me largely responsible for what happens. It’s?—”

“But this wasn’t a scene, was it?”

“No, I suppose it wasn’t.”

“It’s like you think you’re a robot, programmed to be perfect. But life isn’t perfect. It can be messier than you ever expected…” She sits up and stares off at the fireplace and its golden embers. “Sometimes you can do everything right, and nothing works. And that’s just how life is.”

I don’t think we’re talking about me anymore. “Tabitha, is there something you want to say?”

And just like that, she smiles it away. Whatever it was. “Just that. Stop acting like you set yourself to some higher standard than the rest of us. Be a human sometimes. It’s okay.”

“Just as long as you remember the same thing for yourself.” I motion for her to lie down again, and to my relief, she does. “We did a risky thing. Let’s not let that slip again, okay?”

She bites my shoulder playfully. “I’ll try.”

I swat her ass. “Oh, you better do more than try.”

“Or you’ll spank me again?”

“If you’ve earned it.”

“Then I’ll do my best to earn it.”

16

SALVATORE

The cleaners have ironedmy tuxedo to within an inch of its life, yet the bow tie they produced is a crime—black polyester masquerading as silk. In what world are they the same? I take the proper tie from my wardrobe, and knot it myself in the mirror. Hands steady, breath slow. Image immaculate.

Or it would be, if the dull ache under my sternum would settle down. It’s not the searing vise that pinned me to the floor six months ago—just a small, malicious pinch, like a reminder voicemail from my mortality.

Still here, Sal. Tick-tock.

Fuck off. I’m only forty-five.

I roll my shoulders once, inhaling through my nose, counting four beats, exhaling six. The discomfort eases but doesn’t vanish. Good enough for now, I suppose.

Dante breezes past my open door, already in white dinner jacket, humming Sinatra. “You driving, biggest brother?”

“I’ll take the wheel.” My voice emerges calm, clipped. I need the focus of a long drive, and letting Dante pilot any vehicle is like trusting a pyromaniac with kerosene. If I wanted another heart attack, I’d pass him the keys.

He salutes and disappears. Nico follows, pocket square aligned to the micron, murmuring to his phone. Neither glances twice when I wince at the tug in my chest. I’ve concealed worse from them before.

I reach for cuff links—white gold, mother-of-pearl centers. The box lid trembles as I lift it. Annoying. Of all the things I do in a day, this should not be what slows me down.Clasp, twist, breathe.By the time I finish, my pulse has steadied to a low rumble.

A soft knock. “Sal? May I come in?”

Tabitha. She steps through holding a pair of strappy heels like contraband. Midnight-blue gown—a rich dream poured over her curves. My chest twinges again, though not from plaque.

Her eyes sweep my face. “Everything okay?”

“Perfect.” Habit snaps the answer out before I weigh it.

“Hmm.” She closes the door, sets the shoes on an ottoman, and walks closer, gaze narrowed. “You’re pale.”

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