Page 56 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

She slips her arms through the sleeves, fingers brushing mine—a spark, subtle and searing.

Later, in my office, the launch dashboard glows green—every column reconciled. Yet numbers blur behind a fresher metric. One woman’s genuine smile is worth more than any influencer’s CPM.

I add Grandma Judy’s mortgage to my to-do list and stare at the note, unexpected warmth pooling in my chest. Profit motive still drives me—but some investments yield returns none of my charts can quantify. Tabitha might hate what I plan to do, but I’ll take that over the possibility that her family could lose their home.

I close the laptop and lean back, picturing Tabitha practicing choreography in the hallway, Sal guarding her hopes, Dante ready with fireworks. For the first time in years, the upcoming quarter feels less like a trial and more like a possibility.

24

SALVATORE

I startthe day the way my cardiologist ordered. Ten minutes on a stationary bike, two minutes of square breathing, a scan of the markets before espresso. It feels almost—almost—mundane. Routine kills anxiety, or so goes the theory.

The elevator doors to the executive floor whisper open just after eight. Between the scent of walnut-oil polish and our new bean-to-cup machine, I tell myself it will be a good day. I have to approve the direction for the autumn line before we can start the designs, and I have to review vendor deals. Not a difficult day in my world.

Gianna, my assistant, intercepts me at reception with a breakfast smoothie and a schedule printed on ivory card stock. The woman is a workhorse with old-school predictions, and I appreciate every one of them. Her precision is its own therapy. I thank her, step into my office, and dictate notes for eleven solid minutes. No pulses skipped.

Then Gianna knocks—two quick taps that meanunplanned issue. She enters, mouth tight. “Signor Moretti…a walk-in visitor insists she must see you. She refuses to give her last name, but—” Gianna inhales. “She says you know her. Says it’s something about the views in Cordoba.”

A chill spears my spine. I want to be wrong, but my gut sinks into the floor anyway. “Where?”

“Executive reception.”

My first instinct is to call security and order an immediate removal. But I already feel the old pattern revving—if I avoid her, she’ll turn passive-aggressive, maybe leak something important. Ending it quickly, on my terms, is the surgical option. I nod. “Send her in.”

I steel myself for confrontation right before Alana Beckford crosses my threshold like a model starting a runway—each heel-click perfectly timed. The blackest hair, a designer wrap, and a diamond necklace I bought her two birthdays ago. Her eyes, violet contacts she never let me see her without, flick over my office artifacts. The Monte Carlo rally photo, hand-carved chess set, the stress ball disguised as a leather paperweight she once gave me.

I don’t know why I kept it. I’d forgotten she gave it to me until just now.

“Salvatore.” Her tone is almost seductive, as if we’re resuming a coffee date instead of the last conversation she and I shared—me flat-backed with ECG leads hooked up all over my body while a detective asked polite questions about missing funds.

“State your business.” I remain standing behind my desk, all walnut bulk between us.

She pouts in appreciation of the formality. “I came to make amends.”

“Return the money?”

A tiny wave of her manicured hand. “Money isn’t real, you know that. Just ones and zeroes. Boring. I wanted to see you.”

“The last time you saw me, I ended up millions of dollars lighter. What makes you think I want to see you?”

Her smile pouts. “I’ve missed you.”

“You’ve missed my liquidity.”

“Don’t be like that, Sal,” she says softly as she saunters closer. “I know you’ve missed me too.”

“Ran out of money in Argentina, did you?”

“Why is it always about money with you? Can’t a girl miss her guy?” She sits in my guest chair, slowly crossing her legs to flash the top of her lacy thigh-highs.

“Subtlety was never your strong suit, Alana.”

She smiles playfully. “Who said anything about subtle? You know me. I see what I want, and I take it.”

“I’m no longer yours for the taking.”

She crosses her arms, lifting her tits. Not that they need it. The woman is tall and thin, but ample there. She’s only doing this because she knows they were my favorite asset of hers. It’s transparent, much like her white blouse.

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