Page 36 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

“Natural Sicilian pallor,” I say, attempting dryness.

“Your people are olive-skinned and tan, not pale like my people.” She touches my wrist—cool fingertips, measured pressure. Almost as if she knows what she’s doing. “Your pulse is fast.”

“Are you a nurse?”

There’s a flicker in her eyes as she releases my wrist. “No.”

“Pre-event adrenaline,” I assure her. “I’m fine, Tabitha.”

Concern furrows her brow. “If you need to sit, or?—”

“I need to arrive on time.” My tone edges sharper than intended. Her shoulders hitch. I regret the reflex, but can’t unwind it. I add, softer, “Thank you for asking.”

A moment stretches. She nods, eyes still watchful, then bends to slip on her heels. When she straightens, she’s regal despite visible nerves. “Ready when you are.”

“Alright,” I say, offering my arm. “Let’s go.”

Her fingers wrap around my elbow, warm and tenuous. As we walk out, I’m not sure what to think of her. In some ways, I like that she spotted my troubles. She pays more attention than my own brothers. But that’s also a problem. If she figures things out…

I can’t let anyone know about my heart condition. It’s pride, sure, but it’s also business.

No one wants a CEO who might drop dead at any moment.

The private dining salon atLa Cattedraleglitters with crystal and low conversation. Twenty investors—some old-money Italians, several new Silicon-Valley faces, one razor-sharp Saudi fund manager—stand when we enter. Cameras click for internal PR only. I position Tabitha at my left, hand resting lightly at her waist, broadcasting possession and endorsement.

Introductions cycle. She holds her own until we reach Massimo DeRossi, the vineyard baron and notorious pedant. He lifts her hand to kiss the air above her knuckles. She blushes, unsure whether to curtsy, and murmurs, “Pleasure to meet you, SignorDee-ROSS-ee.”

He corrects her, smugly. “Deh-ROH-see.Accent on the second syllable.”

A faint flush climbs her neck. I slide in. “Signor DeRossi is forgiving—the only thing he loves more than Sangiovese is instructing the world how to pronounce it.” Light chuckles ripple, and Massimo’s ego is soothed.

Tabitha exhales, tossing me a grateful glance, before smiling coquettishly at him. “Then, I’d hate to deprive him of the chance to school me. I’ll be sure to mispronounce things for you, sir.”

He tosses his head back, a quick laugh. “Oh, I like her, Salvatore. Bring her to Tuscany in the summer. I’ll be happy to teach that tongue of hers a thing or two.”

She blushes prettily, but I teasingly scowl at him. “Tuscany in summer? Surely you jest. Summers are for the mountains…” That bomb diffused, we move on to the first course. Oysters with blood-orange mignonette—she hesitates over which fork.

How did I not see this coming? This is not her world, yet we presumed she’d slide right into the slot of “fake girlfriend who knows high society.” I feel like a dumbass.

No time to dwell on it, though. I shift my dessert spoon subtly, signaling configuration, and she follows. No one notices. Her shoulders lower by millimeters as she navigates the shellfish, watching my every move. With surprise, she murmurs, “That’s delicious.”

I wonder how many firsts she will experience with us.

Conversation ranges from currency hedging to crypto regulation. She listens, nods, sips wine. I lean near once, whisper, “Ask Elena about her nonprofit. She’ll light up.”Tabitha pivots, draws the Swiss venture capitalist into animated chatter about her girls’ STEM programs. Flawless execution.

Between courses Nico discusses next-quarter sustainability metrics. Dante jokes about biodegradable snowboard wax to break the tension, and laughter softens cost-cutting lines. I watch Tabitha laugh along, and find myself doing the same. The panic about her fitting in fades to nothingness.

The main course is veal medallions in a Barolo reduction. The sommelier pours DeRossi’s flagship reserve. Tabitha lifts her glass, inhales appreciatively, and says just loud enough, “Mmm, love that smoky merlot finish.”

Silence pricks the tablecloth. Merlot? Barolo producers treat that comparison like slander.

I intercede before Massimo’s eyebrows climb off his skull. “Interesting palate,” I say, smiling calmly. “Barolo’s elegance sometimes masks its darker notes. Tabitha spent years in bistros—merlot is her baseline. Good catch, doll.”

Her eyes dart to mine, questions haunting her. She knows she screwed up again. But DeRossi relaxes, pontificates about Nebbiolo versus Bordeaux terroir, and defuses the crisis.

She leans toward me during dessert. “I mixed up the grapes, didn’t I?”

“Completely,” I murmur, amused. “But you recovered.”

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