Page 14 of Sold to the Silver Foxes (Forbidden Hearts #6)

TABITHA

The trip to Villa Moretti is long. It’s on the outskirts of town, in the country, according to Dante. He really is the chatty one of the three. As Nico drives, Dante narrates. “…and that’s where Sal skinned his knee when he was…how old were you, seventeen? Eighteen?”

“Sixteen,” Sal says, rolling his eyes. “And I can’t believe you remember that. You were an infant.”

“I was nine, thank you very much, and seeing your big brother come down the driveway with his kneecap sticking out of his skin sticks with a guy.”

I clutch at my stomach, feeling sick. “Oh my god, really?”

But Sal shakes his head. “It wasn’t that bad?—”

“You had three surgeries,” Nico interjects. “It was pretty bad.”

Sal shrugs and stares out the window. “Could have been my head that hit that rock instead of my knee, so I’ll take it.”

“Sheesh,” I mutter. “What were you doing for that to happen?”

Sal gets a little glimmer of a smirk. “I was under the mistaken impression that I was invincible and that every bike is great for doing stunts. As it turned out, I was wrong.”

“Thank goodness you were wearing a helmet.”

He snorts a laugh. “No, I wasn’t. It’s dumb luck that I survived.”

“Hopefully, that kind of dumb luck is contagious,” I say, trying not to think of my sister.

Last week, I was calculating whether I could afford the generic-brand ramen.

Today, I roll up on a mansion that looks like an expensive Italian hotel, surrounded by tall trees and flowerbeds gone dormant for the winter.

A servant in white gloves and a formal black uniform unloads my duffel like it’s precious cargo.

This is more than my brain is comprehending.

Dante whistles as I gape. “You like?”

“Like?” I echo, craning my neck. “I’ve seen airports smaller than this.”

He slings an arm around my shoulders, steering me past a pair of hulking front doors carved with ivy and roses. “Welcome to the Casa de Moretti.”

The inside is just as lux, with marble floors, dark hardwood in all directions, and real art. Not the posters you buy in college to decorate your room. The real stuff on canvas. And statues. And tapestries. I’m afraid to breathe, or I’ll break something. “This place is impressive.”

“It’s home,” Dante says with a humble shrug. “I know it’s a little large, but we grew up here, so we like coming here during the holiday months to relax. Let’s get you unpacked.”

He takes me to my suite—and it is a full-on suite with my own bathroom, a living room area, and a fridge.

Almost like my own studio apartment, every bit as pretty as the rest of the house.

The walls are royal purple with gold crown molding, and even though that’s ostentatious, I kind of love it.

More than that, I’m glad I’ll have my own space for this month. Gives me a place to cool off.

Upon unloading my duffel bag, I hear a low whistle. “What?”

Dante declares, “I thought we’d play naked Twister first, but no. First, wardrobe triage.”

I glance down at my bargain-store jeans and scuffed boots. “Triage sounds serious.”

“Critical,” he deadpans. “Imagine introducing you to a board of investors in those shoes. Nico would hemorrhage, then Sal would faint from the PR fallout.” He winks. “Let’s save everyone a trip to the ER.”

Twenty minutes later, I’m buckled into the passenger seat of Dante’s matte-black Aston Martin, hair whipping in the December wind while he navigates the streets like a man born without the self-preservation gene.

“You always drive like you’re auditioning for a spy movie?” I shout over the wind while I try to tie my hair up.

“Relax—my hobbies require quick reflexes.”

“Define hobbies .”

“BASE jumping, heli-skiing, the occasional volcano surf. Today, my thrill is haute couture.”

I laugh, half-terrified, half-exhilarated. Minutes later, we roll into the private entrance of an upscale shopping arcade closed to everyday mortals. A greeter unlocks the frosted-glass doors as if Dante owns the place.

On second thought, he might, for all I know.

Inside, soft jazz pulses from invisible speakers. Polished floors gleam, and mannequins wear gowns that cost more than Grandma Judy’s house. Dante hands me a flute of something bubbly—“Hydration,” he claims—then summons a phalanx of stylists.

“Mission parameters,” he tells them. “Twenty-plus events. Black-tie galas to après-ski mixers. She needs everything—gowns, cocktail dresses, shoes, coats, the works. Think Hollywood starlet meets alpine princess .”

I choke on champagne. “That sounds…expensive.”

He taps my glass. “We’ve got it covered, princess.”

“What do you…I can’t afford?—”

“It’s on me.”

I don’t know how to feel about that, but I guess looking good is a part of the job requirements.

The clothes are work uniforms, nothing more.

But every whirl of silk, cashmere, and feathers makes me a little giddy.

I’ve never been too concerned with fashion—I’m just glad when I can afford to thrift shop—but now that it’s someone else’s dime? I admit it—I like pretty things.

One stylist instructs me to step onto a pedestal while another circles with a measuring tape. Dante lounges on a velvet sofa, offering running commentary:

“Yes to the amethyst. Brings out her eyes.”

“Lose the ruffles—she’s not a cupcake.”

“Higher slit. Investors need incentive to donate.”

I’m mortified and flattered in equal measure. When the team finally disperses to pull sizes, Dante beckons me toward a bank of mirrored dressing suites framed in gold.

“Moment of truth,” he says, pushing open a Private Fittings Only door . Inside is a chaise lounge, wall-to-wall mirrors, racks of garments still in garment bags, and a warm spotlight that flatters every angle.

I step onto the plush rug, fingers brushing a red velvet gown. “I’ve never worn anything this fancy.”

“Then today you conquer Everest,” Dante declares, unzipping the first bag. It’s a champagne silk slip dress, bias-cut, delicate as moonlight. He passes it over the screen divider. “Try this.”

I shimmy into the dress, and the fabric slides like water over my skin, pooling at my feet. I stare at myself, not quite sure how I ended up here in a dress that costs half a year’s rent.

“How’s the view?” Dante calls.

“Insane. In a good way.”

“Lemme see.”

He ducks around the divider before I can protest. His gaze skims from my collarbone to my toes, pupils darkening. “Damn, Tabi.”

My pulse skitters. The room suddenly feels ten degrees warmer. “Too much?”

“Not enough.” He steps closer, fingertips grazing the low back of the gown where the silk barely kisses my spine. Goose bumps bloom instantly.

I tilt my head, meeting his playful grin. “You’re supposed to critique the dress, not the wearer.”

“I can multitask.” He tugs a loose string near my shoulder. “My only complaint is the seams need adjusting.”

His knuckles brush my skin. I shiver—and that’s when the air shifts from playful to electric. He notices, smile fading into a smolder that tightens low in my belly.

“Tabi,” he says softly, one hand sliding to my waist. “Know what else multitasks?”

“Hmm?”

“Dressing rooms. They can house all sorts of perversion.”

My breath hitches. “Isn’t that…against store policy?”

He chuckles. “I am store policy.” Then he kisses me, sudden and thorough. The silk gapes open at the sides, and I feel every inch of hard muscle beneath his tailored sweater.

I melt—no other word for it. His tongue teases, coaxing a moan from my throat. One hand slides up, cupping my breast through the fabric, while the other finds the thin strap, easing it off my shoulder. The gown slips lower, baring skin still tingling from last night.

“Dante,” I whisper, half plea, half warning. Anyone could walk in. Even if he had locked the door—which he hasn’t—they have keys.

He breaks the kiss just enough to breathe, forehead resting on mine. “Tell me to stop, I’ll stop.”

But I don’t want to. Instead, I gently shake my head and smile up at him.

His grin is pure trouble. He lifts me onto the chaise in one fluid motion, silk pooling at my waist. Lips trail down my throat, teeth grazing the soft skin.

My head falls back, and the mirrored walls give me a panoramic view of myself—flushed, hair wild, gown sliding, Dante kneeling between my knees like bad decisions incarnate.

He nudges the fabric aside, pressing hot kisses down my sternum, across my belly.

When his mouth dips lower, I gasp—and the world dissolves into heat and silk and the rhythmic thud of my heart.

I have to bite my fist to stop from getting loud.

His tongue is relentless on my clit, and I swear I’m gonna black out, but this feels too good to stop.

I grip his hair, salt-and-pepper curls streaming between my knuckles as the ache thumps deep inside.

My orgasm hits hard and fast, and it’s like the room is spinning.

Sometime later—minutes, hours, I can’t tell—he eases back up, nipping my lower lip before settling beside me. He tastes like me, and I kinda like that. We’re both breathing hard, grinning like conspirators.

I swipe damp hair from my forehead. “If that’s the fitting process, I’m gonna need electrolytes.”

He laughs, brushing a thumb across my cheek. “And I’m going to need another taste of dessert before the main course. But at the moment, cocktail dresses.” Then he taps his watch. “Think you can stand?”

“Won’t know till I try.”

When we exit the dressing suite, the lead stylist arches an elegant brow but says nothing—either accustomed to Moretti antics or well-paid enough to ignore them. I’m just glad we’re not getting arrested.

By late afternoon, we’ve bought six gowns, four cocktail dresses, four coats, enough stilettos to stock a runway, a variety of ski and casual wear, and a box of jewelry, all of which will be delivered to their house.

I don’t want to know the price tag. My head spins at the thought, but Dante navigates it all with breezy confidence, swiping black cards I’ve never seen in real life.

Outside, the sky bruises purple. Dante insists we stop at a cozy patisserie across the plaza. Over croissants the size of my face, he outlines my upcoming schedule on a napkin, doodling tiny stick-figure versions of Nico and Sal beside mine.

His own stick figure wears a cape. Subtle.

“Sal’s CEO summit, black-tie—wear the emerald. Nico’s board dinner, knee-length navy. My ski expo, obviously the white jumpsuit with faux-fur hood.”

I grin, chase crumbs with my finger. “If I break an ankle in those heels, do I get workers’ comp?”

He locks eyes with me. “You’ll get whatever you want from us, Tabi.” He says it with such authority that a shiver tingles through me, and my throat goes dry.

What do you even say to that? I can hardly find my words, but manage a brilliant, “Oh. Okay.”

Dante checks his own phone after it beeps. “Sal’s punctual streak continues. Ready to head back?”

“Ready enough.” I smile confidently, hoping to hide the lie.

Truth is, I’m not ready for any of this.