Page 64 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

“I don’t know how to fake being interested in spreadsheets and the best cigars.”

She giggles at that. “Your brothers treat you like a wild card because you lean into it. Show them you can be more.”

My throat tightens. “You think I’m capable of more?”

She cups my jaw. “The roller coaster. You saw what I needed and you helped me get it. You’re a lot deeper than you give yourself credit for, Dante.”

It’s rare for me to be embarrassed by praise, but somehow, I manage. “So we fight this leak. Together.”

“Together,” she echoes. Then she tilts her head. “Also, maybe keep your pants zipped in public boutiques. Just a thought.”

I laugh—a real belly laugh. The thunderhead in my chest starts to break apart. “Thanks for the talk. I have a lot to think about, so I’m gonna head out.”

“Happy to help.”

I kiss the top of her head and leave. If I don’t, I’m going to get her naked, and when she’s naked, I stop thinking. This is too important for distractions.

I make a list of the changes I need to make, starting with my brothers. Tabitha’s right—I should take more of an interest in what they like. Maybe it’ll round me out. The list includes birthday parties without the threat of broken bones or tarnished reputations, but I’m not sure how you throw a birthday party without that.

Attend one night of highbrow entertainment per month. Maybe I’ll develop a taste for it if I try. Nico seems to like it. Sal? I think he just tolerates it. Except for opera—he likes the opera.

Most importantly, figure out how to ask Tabitha to stay after the contract is over.

I’ll have to talk to Nico and Sal, but I’m mostly sure they’re on board with the idea. Even if they’re not, I can be persuasive. The end of the contract is coming, and I want this settled.

Settled. That word pricks at my independence. For a long time, I bristled against the idea of settling down. I’m only thirty-eight. Practically a teenager. I have years of bad choices ahead of me.

And now I’m considering giving that up for a woman.

I huff a laugh at myself and set the tablet aside. Outside, the snowstorm has slowed to a gentle fall. The world is white-noised, a blank page waiting.

For the first time in years, the daredevil thrill isn’t on a cliff but in a living room, wearing an oversized sweatshirt, her future pulsing brighter than any BASE-jumping strobe. I think of Pietro’s warnings, and they mean almost nothing to me. I’ll skydive without a parachute before letting her crash.

I’m done screwing up. With her by my side, I can do anything.

27

NICO

There arefew things as grating as Pietro’s involvement in our affairs, but tonight promises the possibility of more irritations. Investor meetings are always stressful, particularly the type that involve our long-term investors. Those bastards think everything is for sale. Last year, Adolfo Lemini attempted to take liberties with Carla.

It was refreshing to see him kneeling and yelping about his two fingers by the time we caught up to them. We cut ties with him, and his business hasn’t been the same since his arrest. Hopefully, this year’s slate of investors have already caught wind of Adolfo’s troubles and will keep their hands to themselves.

I run my gaze down the table a final time. Every item is placed just so, whispering orderly elegance. Even the centerpiece gleams—a series of roses and silver, precisely arranged to sparkle brightly beneath the extensive chandelier.

The doors open precisely at seven. Dante drifts in first, tux jacket unbuttoned, already rolling out some anecdote about a helicopter malfunction to a young venture capitalist who loves extreme sports as much as my brother. Sal follows, a pillar inmidnight blue, escorting Sir John Markham—our oldest guest and perpetual skeptic of “modern nonsense marketing.”

Tabitha enters last, on the arm of Yves Laroche—the Paris retail magnate whose wife once described my brand as “more lion than lamb.” She wears purple velvet wrapped around her frame and shot through with silver thread. Dante’s last-minute choice, but I double-checked the pattern’s distortion tolerance under spotlights. It sculpts her body without veering into scandal. More importantly, she looks comfortable, chin lifted, shoulders set.

I breathe. Time to start the fiasco.

Sal sits at the head, anchoring gravitas. I’m at the center left, a command position for deal talk. Dante floats mid-right to inject levity. Tabitha is placed across from Lady Markham and two investor spouses, well clear of the Parisian flirt, Henri Duval, whose Instagram biography lists“Gourmand, philanderer, yachtsman”in that order.

He’s new. The board insisted he get a seat at the table, though I had my reservations. Such is life.

Sal opens with a toast—zero superfluous words, just “To new partnerships and honorable profits.” Sir John grunts approval. Dante segues into describing the estate’s centuries-old wine cellar while waiters pour wine. Laughter bubbles, and soon the conversation flows naturally.

This is my element. The best deals don’t happen in the boardroom. They happen in homes, when people are relaxed and pliant. The better the mood, the more the money flows.

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