Page 60 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

Pietro’s wolfish smile reveals perfect orthodontics. “Surprise inspection.”

“I don’t like surprises, Dumas.”

“One of the world’s greatest secrets is that no one does.”

“What I meant to say is that my staff would have arranged refreshments,” Nico replies. It’s phrased as mild regret, but his eyes screamI’d have arranged snipers.

Pietro flicks his fingers. “I’ve tasted your wine cellars, but thank you for the imagined courtesy. Not to worry—I’ll keep it short.” He nods toward me. “Tabitha, dear, might we speak privately?”

Nico’s nostrils flare, but he says, “The salon is available.”

I glance at him, and he gives a fractional nod—permission or warning, I can’t tell. Pietro’s bodyguards step past us into the salon, sweeping handheld detectors over sconces and mantels. Two others linger outside the door. Their earpieces glint like frost.

The hairs at my nape prickle. I remember Dante’s story of boutique cameras, Pietro’s threats. Intimidating, yes—yet bizarrely reassuring. He guards his virgins like priceless art.

We enter the salon, which is a nice word for an attached greenhouse. At least, that’s what it looks like with all the plants and glass panel walls. Pietro gestures gracefully for me to sit, and he remains standing, long fingers clasped behind his back. His people close the doors, and now I’m alone with a mobster.

“Tabitha, my dear, how are you faring?”

I fold my hands in my lap. “I’m well. The brothers are treating me with respect. More than respect.”

He lifts a brow. “Affection, perhaps?”

Heat creeps up my neck. I remember Nico laughing in the studio, Sal’s pulse beneath my cheek, Dante defending me against Cousin Antonio’s barb. “Seems to be.”

Pietro sighs as though that complicates bookkeeping. “That’s a pity.”

“Why?”

“Emotional attachment can cloud judgment. If harm occurs, some girls protect their lovers by lying to me.”

“I’m not lying. They’re good to me.”

His gaze searches mine, predator assessing prey for fractures. Finding none, he exhales softly. “Very well. The others report similar goodwill.”

It’s shameful, but I haven’t thought much about the other virgins from that night. Still, I’m glad to hear they’re doing well. “That’s good, I guess.”

“But circumstances evolve. If you, at any moment, wish to terminate, contact me directly.” He produces a matte-black flip phone the size of a playing card from his coat pocket. “No GPS. Press the star button, and it dials me. Funds will be wired within hours, nonnegotiable.”

I swallow. “I said I’m fine here.”

“That option keeps bidders on their best behavior and virgins safe.” He sets the phone in my palm. “If your feelings change—toward them, toward the arrangement—use it.”

“Pietro, I’m not pretending…” It’s odd how hard that sentence hits when I say it out loud. It’s true, though. I’m not pretending.The way I feel about them is genuine, and that scares the hell out of me.

He smiles kindly. Or what passes for kindly on his face. “I’m sure you’re not. All the same, keep the phone. And do not worry about your pay. You’ve more than earned it, even if I have to liquidate their assets to do so.”

My throat tightens. “That’s not necessary.”

“How is your sister doing? I understand her surgery is soon.”

Mental whiplash. I’d ask how Pietro knows about her surgery, but he seems like he always knows more than he should. The conversation shifts to medical logistics. Turns out, he knows her neurosurgeon. His charm is oily yet sincere, a paradox that leaves me rattled.

Finally, he bids me farewell. I follow him to the foyer where Nico stands sentinel, arms folded.

Pietro tips an invisible hat. “Lovely villa, Niccolò.”

Nico’s smile shows no teeth. “Let me know next time you’re in the neighborhood.” Translation:I’ll booby-trap the driveway.

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