Page 70 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

After a quick shower, I find her gone. A note on her pillow tells me,“Too hungry to stay. Sorry. XO, T.”Can’t blame her there. I’m starving.

Downstairs, I find Dante standing barefoot in flannel pants, flipping cinnamon-sugar brioche slices on the griddle. Tabitha perches on a stool, instructing him on technique, her hair in a messy bun. She sees me, her smile brightened by her inner warmth.

“Looking snazzy, Sal,” Dante jokes.

I slap his shoulder lightly. “Focus or you’ll burn breakfast.”

“We’re covered.” He grins. “Chef Tabitha ensures quality.”

Tabitha passes me a mug bearing a heart on it. I chuckle—her sense of humor or coincidence? She winks. Definitely a nudging joke. I kiss the tip of her nose, then swat her ass. “Brat.”

She beams at that.

Nico enters in a tailored travel blazer, eyes scanning, satisfied. “French toast? What would your trainer say, Dante?”

“That she’s jealous. Want some?”

“Yes, please.”

It’s oddly domestic, the four of us teasing over French toast and coffee. Lazy brunches are the best brunches. It’s hard to believe the day started with fireworks, and now we’re here like nothing ever happened. Tabitha smooths things over by her very presence.

I need that in my life. I’m not sure how to explain that to my brothers. But I hope they understand that I’m not willing to end things just because the contract ends.

29

TABITHA

The electric sconceslining the upper gallery seem to breathe more quietly, as if respecting the gravity of today. In three hours, a neurosurgical team will wheel Erin—my baby sister, my favorite person—into an operating theater bathed in light and life-or-death stakes.

My backpack is zipped and waiting by the portico doors. Two pairs of leggings, an oversized hoodie that Erin claimed a long time ago, a stuffed snow fox from Dante—this one in rainbow colors—chargers, salty snacks, a leather notebook full of stats I’ll pretend to reread while pacing. On the credenza sits a brown paper bag Sal labeled“Approved by Hospital Nutrition.”Inside is an artisan PB&J cut into triangles, apple slices sealed under vacuum wrap, one square of ninety percent chocolate, and two aspirin. Sal’s love language, apparently, is contingency planning.

Not that I’m surprised.

I stir the embers of the foyer hearth and replay yesterday’s whirlwind. The phone calls from Dr. Shah confirming OR availability. Nico’s assistant chartered a limo to take us, so we wouldn’t have to think about driving. Dante sprinting throughcorridors, waving a crocheted purple blanket because Erin “deserves royal colors.” And Sal, leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, letting them whirl—his approving gaze the gravitational center, steady enough to keep me from spinning apart.

I shouldn’t feel calm, yet I do. There’s fear, of course. The surgery could go sideways in dozens of ways. But the things we can control are controlled. The brothers are becoming a living exoskeleton around the softest parts of my life. They said they’d carry me through this, and somehow my hyper-independent brain believes them.

I move to the tall windows. Beyond the glass, snowflakes swirl in slow-motion choreography under floodlights—the same lights Nico insisted the grounds crew install so “nerves can pace at two a.m. without ice hazards.” For three hard men, they’ve done everything in their power to give me a soft landing.

I press a hand to the pane, palm cooling. Somewhere out there, the horizon is beginning to glow lavender. Sunrise is almost here, and with it, the surgical countdown begins.

Soft footfalls. Nico, already in a charcoal wool suit and open-collar shirt, carries two bone-white demitasses. No tie—small miracle. His gray hair is damp. He smells of bergamot shampoo.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, handing me a cup.

I wrap both hands around it. “Could. Didn’t dare.”

He clinks china rims with mine in a silent toast to insomnia. The espresso is perfect—slightly bitter, much like him.

“The limo will be here soon,” he says. “Dante’s searching for his lucky avalanche beanie.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Avalanche beanie?”

Nico’s mouth quirks. “In Dante-speak, a knit hat prevents emotional avalanches.”

The image dislodges a laugh, first of the morning. Laughter tastes like relief, unexpected and necessary. But also foreign. Inappropriate.

Nico’s expression softens the way it did the night in the conservatory after the Henri incident. “You’ve got this,” he says. “And if you don’t, we’ve got you.”

---