Page 94 of Sold to the Silver Foxes

“Before surgery?”

“Before everything.” She shrugs again, but the left shoulder drags less this time—progress. “When Tabi worked at the bistro, she’d bring home croissants, pain au chocolat, even tried escargot once. It was pretty good, kinda weird.” A giggle escapes.

“And now?”

Her gaze slides to the window. Winter light flares across her pupils. “Back then, Paris felt…reachable. Then I kept puking. Hungry, but nothing stayed. And then we found out about the tumor… So now, I have new dreams.” She forces a playful eye roll. “Dream one—walk ten feet without the wobbles. Dream two—keep a steak frites down.” She taps the board. “Bigger than Paris, right?”

She tries for bravado, but the crack in her voice is audible. My heart constricts—not the post-attack ache, but a deeper bruise. The sound of a child downsizing her wonder to fit a hospital bed.

Grandma’s crochet hook slows, then resumes. Even Judy can’t crochet fast enough to stitch that wound closed.

I clear my throat. “Paris isn’t gone. It’s on hold.”

Erin side-eyes me. “On hold?”

I slide a checker, sacrifice two reds. “Your move.”

She scoffs but smiles, double-jumps my piece, crows, “King me!” The tiny plastic crown clicks onto her disk. A few moveslater, the game ends. Erin wins by three kings and a whistle of triumph. Grandma claps, then stands, smoothing her skirt.

“Nap time, champ.” She wheels Erin gently. Erin groans but doesn’t fight—Nurse Rios warned that overexertion stalls nerve healing.

As they exit, Erin waves her crowned disk like a royal decree. “Practice your openings, Sal!” Her laugh echoes off the glass.

The laugh fades into hallway hush, leaving me alone with the checkerboard and a heart that weighs more than any game piece. Outside, snow dusts the rose garden I pruned last autumn. Frozen petals glint like imprisoned fireworks, waiting to unfurl.

Erin’s resignation stabs deeper than Pietro’s threat—one-liners about heritage I could fight with lawyers. Stolen dreams I can’t litigate. Restless, I gather the pieces, wipe table crumbs, but agitation builds.

I stand and pace the length of the room. Forty paces, pivot, forty back. Pacing once triggered chest pain. Now the heart only aches in metaphor. But the job is real. Protect. Provide. Marshall.

I exhale, run a hand over the checkered marble. An idea flickers at the corner of my mind—the sort of reckless but calculated risk that doubles as our family creed.

But it needs quiet to bloom. I leave the pieces, head for the master stair.

Halfway down the second-floor corridor, I hear Grandma Judy’s murmur through Erin’s open door. “…two more weeks and you’ll be chasing Dante down the luge.” Erin’s sleepy giggle answers.

I pause at the threshold; Grandma Judy sees me, raises a brow. I tip my head—can we talk? She tucks the blanket, whispers toErin, then steps out, pulling the door until only a finger of hall light leaks in.

“Everything all right?” she asks.

“Yes and no.” I recount Erin’s Paris confession.

Her eyes mist, but her voice stays steel. “I wish kids understood time stretches. She’ll travel again. The body heals. It’ll take time, but she’ll get there.”

“Dreams heal too, if fed.” I fold my arms. “But I need your blessing to try something.” I outline a seed idea and couch it carefully—no broken promises when it comes to a kid.

She listens, nodding sagely. “You boys aim big.”

“We don’t know any other way.”

“I’ve noticed.”

EPILOGUE

TABITHA

I haveto touch the marble tabletop every few minutes to convince myself it’s solid. Cool, veined, impossibly Parisian. Outside our café window, Rue Saint-André-des-Arts hums with the music of spring. Mopeds sputter past baskets of pink peonies. A violinist plays something lilting near the métro entrance. The limestone façades glow honey-colored in morning light that looks too soft to be real.

April in Paris.

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