Page 71 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

I nod—can’t risk my voice cracking—and sip espresso. The caffeine hits like a pep rally in my veins.

Brunhilde, as Dante calls the armored black SUV, devours the snow-dusted road as though offended by friction. The professional driver is sober-faced and cunning through traffic, with his hands at ten and two, eyes steely on the road. Sal rides shotgun. He insisted on navigating, but I suspect it’s also to keep a protective eye on the speedometer. Nico and I occupy the second row, and Dante is in the back seat, eyes on his phone.

When I steal a look at the screen, he’s studying the outcomes of astroglioma surgeries.

Hospital buildings materialize out of semidarkness—monolithic, haloed in sodium lamps. We fly through security and valet like a presidential motorcade. Inside the glass atrium, Christmas garlands twist around pillars. Someone left the lobby playlist on light jazz. Erin’s room is too far for her to hear it, but I hope she’s listening to something. My sister loves music.

When we get there, I introduce Nico and Dante, and even though the dynamics are confusing for Erin and Grandma Judy, they roll with it. I think they’re too nervous to ask too manyquestions. We’re there not five minutes before nurses in festive scrubs join us.

“Are you ready, hon?”

That’s the question, isn’t it? I swallow hard, staring at my sister. Pale, wan. Thin. So thin. But she manages a smile for them. “I’m ready for all of this to be over, so yeah. I’m ready.”

We follow as they wheel her to pre-op, but they only allow me and Grandma Judy back there. Sal promises, “We’ll be right here when you return.”

I give them a nod and follow along with Grandma Judy. In pre-op, Erin grins from her bed as the anesthesiologist cracks a joke about purple blankets being good luck. The surgeon appears—Dr. Shah in black scrubs, eyes kind above an N95. He addresses Erin, not me, explaining the plan in patient-friendly terms.

Grandma Judy says, “Out of all of us, she’ll understand the real terminology better than me or Tabi, doc. You can give it to her straight.”

He chuckles at that and lets her have it straight. Erin nods along and asks questions I never thought of. Dr. Shah happily answers them all, never rushing her.

At the end, Erin nods bravely, squeezes my hand, and says, “Tabi, remember you promised to stretcher-surf with me afterward.” Her voice is light, but her eyes brim at the edges.

I bend, kiss her forehead. “Hell, I’ll take you real surfing after. Whatever you want, kiddo.”

They wheel her away. I stand rooted, heart jogging nowhere. When she disappears through the swinging doors, Grandma Judy’s palm settles between my shoulder blades.

“Time to brief mission control,” she murmurs, trying to lighten the air. It mostly works.

The surgical family waiting room smells like disinfectant, old coffee, and the stale fragrance of collective bargaining with fate. Eight other families camp at spaced-out clusters of chairs. Sal stakes claim to a corner alcove, arranges bottled waters, packs of dried fruit, unsalted crackers, hand sanitizer—his version of trench fortification.

Nico opens his laptop once, sees me watching, shuts it, and slips it into his briefcase. “How’d she seem going in?”

“Good. For now.” But I’m shaking.

Dante motions for me to sit with him and fiddles with a deck of cards from the gift shop. “Here, let me show you a trick. See if you can figure it out. He starts a fancy shuffle, then deliberately drops cards, making me laugh. Then he resets, repeats. “Let me try one more time…”

The hours drip by. We track them on the wall clock, on phones, and by coffee refills. Sal whispers he has a cardiology CT slot. I’m relieved to hear it. At least that’s one thing going right today.

Near lunchtime, Dante shows up with grilled-chicken wraps for everyone. I pick at mine. My appetite is null. Nico slides the honey-mustard packet under my nose. “Tangy equals appetite.”

He’s right. I manage half of it.

Eventually, the OR status board flickers with her patient number underClosing.My knees threaten betrayal, but Sal’s arm hooks around my waist.

“Closing means they’re almost done, right?”

He nods once. “That’s a good sign.”

I gulp and try to breathe. Neither are easy.

Minutes later, Dr. Shah appears. Mask off, smile soft. “The tumor was fully removed, with minimal blood loss, and her spinal cord signal is stable, along with her brainstem. I expect her to make a full recovery.”

I collapse in my guys’ arms. I’m crying—ugly crying, unstoppable. Tears soak my cardigan. I don’t care. All I heard wasfull recovery. Nothing else matters.

Only when my sobs recede into hiccups do I realize the entire room is politely pretending not to stare at the four of us and Grandma Judy.

Dr. Shah drily says, “A group hug is an effective analgesic.” Dante laughs, wiping his own eyes.

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