Page 40 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

DANTE

If holiday excesswere an Olympic event, the Moretti family would medal every year. And by family, I mean me.

Right now, I’m orchestrating the opening ceremony. Standing in the marble foyer of Villa Moretti with a clipboard, three radios clipped to my waist, and a mental map of decorations so elaborate even Santa would need blueprints.

Crystal icicles dangle from twenty-foot beams. Red velvet swags loop balcony rails. An eight-piece string ensemble rehearses “Carol of the Bells” on the mezzanine—my favorite Christmas song. Something about the relentless rhythm reminds me of how it feels right before you take the leap off the side of a building, that pulse-pounding, relentless rush. Staff wheel in a gingerbread replica of the estate—complete with spun-sugar topiaries—and park it under a chandelier the size of a Fiat.

Tabitha walks in wearing jeans and a beige oversized cashmere sweater, eyes like saucers. She looks like a model, and there’s not a stitch of makeup on her face or product in her hair. She’s like our very own Christmas angel come to life. But since she’s ademon in the sack, that imagery doesn’t really work. And anxiety is etched on her pretty face.

I sketch the final placement for the ice-sculpture raw-bar sleigh, then notice how tight she’s clutching her phone. Maybe if I tease her a little, she’ll relax. “First time at a Moretti pre-holiday bash?”

She exhales a breath that could fog glass. “I thought the villa last week was extravagant. This is…Versailles auditioning to be a Rockette.”

“It’s a showy handshake to extended family and investors.” I snap my clipboard shut. “But yes, it tends to blow fuses. Literal or otherwise.”

Her gaze flits from the twenty-foot fir to the staircase garland. “You warned me about your relatives being inquisitive—sorry,judgmental. What if I trip over the social rules and land in the caviar?”

“Then Nico will lecture you on fish-roe inflation while Sal silently dies inside,” I joke, but her nervous half smile tells me humor’s not enough tonight.

She brushes invisible lint from her sweater. “I keep replaying the DeRossi grape debacle. I don’t want to screw up with your family.”

“We handled that. You were great.” I tuck a loose strand of her auburn hair behind her ear, lowering my voice. “Trust me, half these people still think Wi-Fi is a champagne brand. We’ll be fine.”

She nods, not convinced. And an urge grips me—not to see her laugh, but to see her fearless. Because fearless Tabitha is a comet, and this party deserves comet energy. And so does she.

It’s three-plus hours until the caterer’s final walk-through. We have the time. “Field trip.”

“Field trip? I have plenty of clothes.”

“Not for clothes. There’s something else you need.”

Her brows knit. “But the party?—”

“Runs on autopilot for two hours. Come on.” I grab my leather jacket, toss her Sal’s spare parka. “I’ve got a fast cure for nerves.”

She eyes me skeptically. “You don’t even get nervous. Sal says you cage-dive with sharks to relax.”

“Well…I do.” I swing the villa’s side door open, a blast of alpine air cutting through incense and spruce. “But believe it or not, some things rattle me. And my secret cure works every time.”

She zips the parka, lifts her chin. “Then lead the way, Daredevil.”

Forty minutes and one icy mountain road later, I’m guiding my trusty ’68 Land Rover through frost-rimmed pine tunnels toward Frost Ridge Amusement Park. It’s closed for the winter—unless you wire a donation big enough to thaw frozen turnstiles.

Tabitha rubs the passenger-side window clear of breath fog. “You realize my entire concept of ‘blowing off steam’ is a hot bath and an audiobook.”

“You’ll upgrade today.” I downshift, tires crunching snow. Beyond the locked gates, the park lies wrapped in hibernation. Silent coasters, carousels under tarp cocoons, kettle-corn scent replaced by crisp cedar air.

Security meets us at the gate, radio chatter confirming authorization. We’re waved through like royalty arriving at a deserted candy kingdom.

“They’re not even open?—”

“They are for us.”

“What did you do?”

I chuckle. “What I have to.”

Tabitha’s breath catches as we park near a towering steel structure veining the gray sky. A scar-red plummet, psychotic drop, loops vanishing into clouds. Thunderhead. Tallest coaster in the Northeast, and my personal church.

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