Page 57 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

Her voice goes too sweet, the way it does when she wants something. “I heard you’re seeing someone new. Someone young. Too young.”

“My dating life has nothing to do with you, Alana.”

“Salvatore, everyone sees through midlife-crisis flings.” Her voice honey-coats the insult, but it lands sharp. “It’s a little pathetic.”

The thought blooms instinctively—surprising, protective. “I’m involved,” I say, level, “and happy. Not a crisis.”

Alana tilts her head. “And a month or two from now, she’ll vanish with a golden parachute. Girls like that always do.”

Fury spikes—short, bright—but my voice stays cold. “Like you did?”

To her credit, she blanches. “That was…a way to fund my new business in Argentina. You’d be proud. We’re doing great numbers?—”

“Get out.”

She remains frozen, perhaps waiting for softening. “I don’t follow orders.”

“My security team does. Out. Now.”

“Fine.” Her eyes glass over with resentment. At the door, she delivers a parting shot. “When she leaves, you’ll come crawling back. You better hope I’m still available.” The latch clicks shut behind her.

The silence swells, then crashes against my ribs. My pulse races. I sit, breathing square-pattern—four in, hold, six out. No stab, but a dull ache unfurls.Not now.

I focus on the clock. Nine thirty-two, and my chest hurts. A new record.

Hours later, at home, the dining hall is a cheerful battlefield of silver and laughter. Some of our relatives have lingered. Snow delayed some flights, and others always linger at the holidays. They run Carla ragged, so I’ve kept some extra staff on hand to help her out.

Cousin Alessio debates barrel aesthetics with Uncle Marco. Dante auditions cocktail syrups on anyone with a glass. Nico quotes ROI figures disguised as jokes. Tabitha sits beside me, hair braided upward, cheeks slightly pink from her cocktail.

I manage small bites of porcini risotto, but each laugh pounds behind my sternum. Alana’s words echo—girls like that leave.I dismiss the echo, but my body doesn’t. A vise tightens the left-center chest.

Not good.

Dante notices my fork pause. “Sal, swear you’ve eaten something besides stress today?”

“A hefty sandwich at lunch. Left me with some agita,” I reply. The ache flashes. I place my napkin on the table. “Excuse me, all.”

Tabitha’s eyes track me with concern but she continues her conversation with Nico—adaptive-van logistics—good. She’s distracted. I navigate hallways I know by heart, climb the servant stairs slower than usual. By the time I reach my suite, my breath saws at my ribs.

I sit on the edge of the bed, unbutton shirt cuffs, and lay a palm flat on my sternum. I’m back to a steady rhythm, but that damnable ache is insistent. More emotional than physiological, I decide. I lean forward, elbows on knees, breathe deliberately. It’s been like this all day, and I’m exhausted.

A faint knock echoes through my room. “Sal? It’s me.” Tabitha’s voice.

Hell’s bells. “Come.”

She enters, closes the door softly. No heels—she must have slipped them off downstairs. She crosses to me, skirt whispering against her calves. “Chest pain?”

“Residual. It’ll pass.”

She sits, weight depressing the mattress, warm hand sliding over mine on my chest. “Was it random, or is something going on?”

I let my lids fall to half-mast. “Not random.”

“What happened?”

“The whole truth?”

“If you don’t mind.”

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