Page 85 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

Tabitha appears at the top of the staircase in a soft blue dress. My chest hurts at the thought of her alone with this man. He showed up at Erin’s checkup, and for that, I commend him, but I don’t pretend it was anything other than theater for Tabitha’s benefit. I’ll never say that to her, though. It meant a lot to her for him to show up like that, and I’d rather she still believe people, even people like Pietro Dumas, can have some good in them.

Dante starts to speak, but I raise a hand. “This is the final term of the contract. It’s okay.”

I’m lying. Nothing about this is okay.

We lead them to Father’s study—thick oak panels, a single door that locks from the inside. Pietro’s men sweep again, and I catch Tabitha’s gaze. I hope she understands the look in my eyes.I love you. Say nothing you don’t want.

She nods. The door shuts. A bolt slides.

We stand outside—a line of Morettis and eight Dumas guards. Time dilates, becomes syrupy. My chest squeezes with phantom pain. I inhale shallow, long exhale, the drill my cardiologist taught. It does nothing.

Minute three: Dante paces, muttering something about ski physics. Nico scrolls something on his phone—probability modeling, no doubt. His new obsession is thanks to a program in its alpha phase that allegedly works better than all the others. I watch the doorknob, half expecting it to redden with heat.

Minute seven: My pulse holds at eighty-three. Guard on the right taps earpiece, whispers status, nods, resumes statue stance.

Minute eleven: The door slams open. Pietro storms out, scarf disheveled, one cuff link missing. His jaw ticks in contempt. Behind him, Tabitha sits on the sofa, face buried in hands, tears leaking between fingers. The floor drops inside my chest.

I step forward. A guard blocks me with a forearm.

“What did you do to her?” I demand.

“What you failed to do,” Pietro says, shrugging the cuff back into place. “Tell the truth.”

I look to Tabitha. She doesn’t raise her head, and her shoulders quake.

I bark, “I will end you, Dumas! Whatever you did?—”

“I could say the same of you.”

I blink. “What?”

Pietro continues, voice silk over rust as he shuts the door between me and Tabitha. “You promised no emotional harm. Instead, you built castles of clouds. Careers, foundations, forever-family fairy tales.” He tuts. “The emotional harm clause has been triggered.”

“Emotional harm requires intent,” Nico says, voice frost-edge.

Pietro’s laugh is soft. “Negligence suffices. She believed in a future you will not make real.”

“Bullshit! We have never lied to her. Not since day one! You have no right, Dumas!”

He waves away my words like they’re nothing. “Your begging bores me, Moretti.”

I lunge—not at Pietro, but toward the door between me and Tabitha. A guard shoves me, and I skid back, heart punching ribs. Pietro snaps his fingers, and the guard locks the study door with Tabitha inside.

Dante explodes. “Unlock that door before I?—”

Pietro silences him with a glance at his second guard, who unsnaps his gun holster. Dante freezes, fury coiling.

“Now,” Pietro says, “we settle accounts.” He steps to the foyer’s central rug. “Our contract stipulates the full transfer of controlling equity upon breach. I’ll file papers by noon. But I am generous.”

Nico’s shoulders square as his fists ball. “Define generous.”

“My uncle finds retail dull. He will slice your house into rental suites, or some such. I, however, prefer legacy. If you relinquish the girl, I can be persuaded to leave the company to your heirs.”

It takes a breath to register. He’s offering a trade. Family empire or Tabitha. The oldest extortion game—ransom.

I picture the factory floors in Lombardy where our artisans still stitch our crest into leather. Lions, full mane, roaring, a traditional crest, navy blue in the background. The same crest on the rug Pietro stands on. The scholarship fund in Milan namedafter our mother. I picture Father himself, laying out his will.The company passes to the brothers or to none; unity is the brand.

Then I picture Tabitha standing under stage lights, turning a jacket sleeve to show hidden vents, or defending Erin’s therapy schedule with soft-spoken ferocity, or telling me I’m more than my heart attack, more than an unoriginal overworked CEO. That I’m worth something to her.

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