Page 74 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

“Coordinated with a few elves.” I shrug. “Sal handled the medical transport. Nico greased insurance. I merely bribed the head nurse with a lifetime of free shoes.”

Her smile grows glassy. “Best bribe ever.”

We’re prepping turndown service for our guests when my phone buzzes—unknown number, Argentinian country code. I excuse myself to the library, closing the oak door softly. “Moretti.”

“Dante, it’s Alana.” Ice water runs down my spine. Sal’s ex was last seen sobbing in our foyer. But even a snake has its uses. “It’s done,” she says. “The video, the server copy, the backups. All destroyed.”

Every muscle unknots an inch. I put in the request after she and Tabitha had their fight at the doorway. Figured if she wanted to make amends, she could start with protecting Tabitha.

“You’re certain it’s over?”

“Five-pass wipe, then physical destruction.” She sighs. “Cost me enough to buy a small island, but it’s over.”

Good. Relief washes over me, but caution follows. “Where’d the funds come from?”

“You don’t want to know.” Her voice cracks, and I can’t tell if it’s a joke or if I genuinely don’t want to know. “Sal doesn’t have to thank me. Just…I hope he’ll stop hating me.”

I lean against a bookshelf. “Protecting Tabitha goes a long way with me. But I can’t speak for Sal.”

“I really do want what’s best for him, Dante. Even if that means he’s with someone else. Sal is a good man.”

I’m not sure if I believe her or if she did this as a part of her scheming. Regardless, I’ll take it. I’m too practical to poke at her, and she’s too good of a hacker to upset further. “If you want what’s best for him, stay clear of the family. I’ll give Sal your email address if he ever wants to reach out.”

Silence—then, “I’ll take that. Thanks, Dante.”

We hang up. I add the contact to a locked note, label it“Danger upon request.”A strange melancholy settles. Endings rarely come neatly, but this feels as close to closure as broken hearts allow.

I remember when Sal told us about Alana’s cheating. Nico was livid. I wanted revenge. Not that I was sure how to get it. But using her to help Tabitha will have to be enough. The irony has to be eating at her fragile ego.

Good.

I pocket the phone and push the library door open. Laughter hits like warm syrup—Erin shrieking as Nico attempts to juggle clementines, Sal scolding him about sticky floors, Grandma Judy humming “O Holy Night,” Tabitha turning mid-step, eyes finding mine.

I step into the room, flick an orange from Nico’s flailing hands, and nail a perfect high arc to Grandma Judy, who catches it with one hand. Erin whoops. Tabitha’s laughter is my favorite melody in the world.

Everything—the chaos, the family, the hot chocolate scent, the future—feels possible. I tuck the secret of Alana’s final act away. Maybe one day I’ll pull it out when Sal’s ready. For tonight, the only story that matters is the one unfolding here and now.

I drop onto the couch beside Tabitha, tug her into my arms as Nico’s third orange thuds onto Sal’s new book. His subsequent scowl at Nico sends Grandma Judy laughing.

And somewhere beneath my breastbone, new promises settle, pulsing like the bass line of a favorite Christmas song. Collect no more reckless headlines, become the man these people believe I can be, and never, ever let this kind of Christmas be a one-time miracle.

31

NICO

I’ve never understoodwhy hospital waiting rooms are designed like ergonomic hell—vinyl that squeaks, fluorescent panels that hum at sixty hertz, carpets patterned to hide stains nobody wants to name.

Erin is getting a follow-up exam and imaging. Another long day at the hospital. But this is the kind of reassurance we all need. That kid has woven her way into our hearts the way Tabitha did—unexpectedly.

Dr. Shah, the lead neurosurgeon, briefed us about the imaging. It would take some time to get every angle needed, and with her limited mobility, they’d have to be even more careful.

Grandma Judy responded, “Whatever you do, doc, bring me good news.”

He vowed to do his best and vanished into the depths of the hospital.

Now Tabitha paces the width of the lounge—ten steps east, perfect spin, ten steps west, repeat. She’s wearing a slate-blue sweater dress and ballet flats, hair braided tightly down her backlike a safety rope. Whenever she spins, I catch a quick silver glint on her wrist—Erin’s medic alert bracelet.

“Pace with me, or I’ll groove a trench in the cheap carpet,” she says. I join, matching stride. My phone chirps every few minutes—department heads posting end-of-quarter update requests—but I swipemuteeach time.

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