Page 88 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

I’m out of my mind with it, out of my body with it. Release rolls in waves until nothing exists but the fire’s heat and our breath and rug fibers imprinting skin. The contract ash smolders inches away, its warmth replaced by ours until they come too.

We lie tangled, silent except for heartbeats gradually synchronizing. At last Dante chuckles, breathless. “I get in on that next time.”

Nico snorts a laugh and props on an elbow. “There’s formal business at hand,” he says, clearing his throat and soundingevery bit the businessman, even when naked. “I had a job offer drawn up to make it official, Tabitha. Will you come work with us?”

He reaches behind him—because of course, the man keeps paperwork within arm’s reach even mid-afterglow—and produces a single sheet. Across the top, it reads,Offer Letter.

Sal traces circles on my hip. “Salary market-rate, equity participation negotiable. Tuition reimbursement guaranteed.”

Tears threaten again. “You’re really hiring me?”

“Inviting, if you prefer,” Nico corrects. “Accept or amend. Your call.”

I sit up amid limbs, and sitting up makes me wince, so I lie back on my elbows to take the sheet with shaking hands. My name is in a bold header. The details are negotiable. Everything is under my control.

“I accept,” I whisper.

I’m not sure why that makes them hard again, but right now, I’m game for anything.

38

DANTE

I’m usedto moving at terminal velocity—speed-flying off cliffs, dirt-biking volcanic ridges, sprinting down runway lights ten seconds before doors close. But this morning my world is slow, measured inches. Lifting, leveling, and locking a 315-pound electric hospital bed against the south wall of the villa’s blue guest room. If I scratch the 1840s parquet flooring, Nonna’s ghost will haunt me.

“Down a hair on your side,” I say to two burly movers—ex-rugby players in Moretti-branded work polos. They lower the frame, and the hydraulic legs hiss. The mattress settles with a sigh louder than my own. One mover gives me ajob-donethumbs-up. I nod, but my brain’s already on the next task.

Portable ramp? Check.

Over-bed trapeze bar? Check.

Hoyer lift with sling for the first few weeks? Check.

Mini-fridge stocked with pediatric electrolyte drinks and healthy snacks? Nico hammered that detail into an email this morning. Check.

Therapy-grade balance board? Hidden under the armoire so Erin doesn’t try tricks too soon? Check and check.

Snow-white winter light pours through the windows, igniting dust motes that look like tiny satellites. A drill whirs nearby—Sal supervising the grab-bar install in the en-suite bathroom’s shower—and the aroma of Carla’s gingerbread granola wafts up the stairs. It’s one of the few things she can bake, and it’s delicious. Domesticity, the kind I never thought I’d want. No time for self-reflection, though. We have twenty-eight minutes before Erin’s wheelchair rolls over the threshold.

And Tabitha doesn’t know yet.

That thought lights a new fuse of adrenaline in my sternum. I wipe sweat with a sleeve, then check the hospital bed’s remote. Head and knees articulate fine, and the zero-gravity preset works. If all my extreme-sports buddies could see me obsessing over incline angles, they’d revoke my membership to the Reckless Club.

But none of them have watched a fifteen-year-old girl take her first wobbly post-op steps and declare she’ll be a rock climber one day. Priorities shift.

“Lift team’s done, boss,” the mover says. I pay them a Christmas-sized tip, thank them twice, and dash across the hall to check the second bedroom. We’ve converted it into Grandma Judy’s retreat—crocheting nook, low loveseat, orthopedic footstool, and a TV for all her classic film needs. Grandma Judy will pretend she doesn’t notice the heated mattress pad, but I know she has arthritis and will love it.

I love mine, and that’s just for my scar tissue from my wrecks.

Twenty-five minutes. I text Nico a status photo, and he replies with a thumbs-up emoji—uncharacteristically casual for him—and a reminder about the stock-options grant we must sign by close of day. Relief escalates to rocket fuel. I can juggle nurse schedules and cap-table minutiae. This is going to work.

The gate camera pings. A white adaptive van, the hospital logo painted on the side. I hustle to the foyer just before the doorbell rings. Damn. I hope Tabitha didn’t hear that. Sal’s already there, rolling his shoulder as if the weight of a grab bar still hangs on him.

Grandma Judy exits first, cheeks pink from the cold, her crocheted green scarf trailing. “Morning, boys. I brought blueberry muffins.” She lifts a reusable bag with the pride of a baker presenting a wedding cake.

Then the nurse, Ms. Rios, emerges with a clipboard, followed by Erin, who operates her wheelchair joystick with cautious glee. “This place is huge.”

“Our place in Italy is bigger,” I say, shrugging.

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