Page 84 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

She’s exactly what we need and what our business needs. I can only hope she says yes.

36

SALVATORE

I have a recurringnightmare in which the contract—the actual parchment with its blood-red ribbon—hops off my desk and paces the villa like a vindictive rabbit. At each tick of the grandfather clock, it grows, sprouting claws made of lawyerly Latin, until it’s tall enough to scrape the chandeliers. Then it opens its single, ink-black eye and announces,“Liquidated damages, Signor Moretti.”

I jolt awake at that exact line for the third night in a row. It’s ridiculous. A child’s nightmare in a grown man? I know how stupid it is. But that doesn’t stop me from waking in a cold sweat.

This time, dawn is only a faint violet stain on the snow, and the scar beneath my sternum hums like a lit fuse. Today, the contract is not just a nightmare come to life.

Today is day thirty.

Downstairs, the villa is hushed. Nico’s study light glows—somewhere behind that door, he’s triple-checking contingency cash positions in case of issue. Dante is not in his room, which means he’s outside flinging himself down an ice luge to outrunhis nerves. All coping strategies on deck, all valid. Mine involves staring at Pietro’s number on my phone, thumb hovering over the call button, just to prove I’m not afraid.

But I am.

When Tabitha enters the kitchen, she’s barefoot, wearing my nightshirt. She instinctively reaches for the second cup I’ve poured—regular, not decaf. We’ve dispensed with lies now. The crease between her brows reminds me of Erin’s incision line—fresh, tender, promising healing but not yet sealed.

“How’s the brace?” I ask.

“Erin says it itches.” She forces a smile, blows on her coffee. “That’s better than numbness. Means it’s healing, the nurses say.”

We do a little choreography of small comforts. She passes me the sugar I don’t use. I pretend to taste test the croissant Dante baked at two a.m. He thinks we don’t know he bakes for stress relief, but we do. Carla was never much of a baker, so it’s not her work, and Nico’s kitchen proficiency ends at not burning water.

All distractions from the thing on our minds. The contract sits between us like a shark below the surface—ignored, always circling.

Carla arrives. She never knocks loudly, but today her rap sounds like a judge’s gavel. “Signor Moretti,” she says, hands clasped, pulse visible in her throat. “There is a gentleman at the north gate. Signor Pietro Dumas.”

Coffee turns to acid in my mouth. For one insane second, I consider telling Carla to feign a boiler failure, plague protocols,anything. But refusing him is a breach by obstruction. Worse. A bored Dumas invents infractions.

Tabitha puts her cup down with a clink. Color drains from her cheeks. She whispers, “I’ll change.”

“You don’t have to?—”

But she’s already sprinting upstairs, braid flying behind herself.

Dante bursts through the mudroom door, snow in his hair. “Carla said—he’s here?” One look at my face answers. He drags a sleeve across his forehead, snow melting into frantic sweat. “We can stall. Tell him Tabitha’s at PT with Erin.”

“And violate the truth clause?” Nico appears behind him, tie half-knotted but voice cool. “We let him in. We stay calm. We’ve got this.”

Rage flares, but I lock it down. Nico is right. We have to remain calm. Today is about not losing Tabitha—or the company that bears our grandfather’s name.

I nod to Carla. “Open the gate.”

The convoy glides up the circular drive. Three SUVs, tinted so dark they could be fish tanks full of ink. Pietro disembarks like a conductor called to his podium. Same flawless midnight-blue suit from the auction, same white scarf, but colder eyes—this is endgame Dumas, perusing his possible kingdom as he looks at my childhood home.

Motherfucker.

His watchdogs scour the foyer, performing RF detector sweeps around chandeliers. A canine’s nose sniffs the area in search of a threat. Everything is theater, but theater with knives.

“Really, Dumas?” I can’t help myself. “You brought hounds?”

“One can never be too careful. Beautiful house,” Pietro says, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. “Enjoy it while you can.”

“State your business,” Nico answers, playing shield before I pop a blood vessel.

“The exit audit, of course,” Pietro replies. “Your prize and I will speak alone.”

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