Page 15 of Sold to the Silver Foxes (Forbidden Hearts #6)

DANTE

I pull off the main highway, swing up the gravel drive to the house, and tap the steering-wheel controls to kill the Aston’s engine.

Tabitha tumbles out of the passenger seat, cheeks flushed from laughter and the heater I cranked to tropical levels the whole way home.

She hadn’t admitted she was cold during the trip to the store, but her blue lips told on her.

That’s why I had to warm her up in the dressing room.

We get to her room, where Carla delivered all the bags and boxes. When Tabitha pulls out the teal dress that had stolen her attention, she gasps. “I thought you said this isn’t appropriate for the functions!”

It’s not. But I don’t care. “Yeah, but you like it.”

She pulls out the short black thing that would only be good for a nightclub. “And this one?”

I shrug. “You looked at it like you looked at the croissants at Pietro’s club. Figured you needed that one too.”

For a moment, I think she’s going to yell at me. But she says, “You didn’t have to buy all of it, you know.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” I pop open another box and haul out two glossy shoeboxes. “You looked so damn hot in those that it would’ve been a crime against fashion and, more importantly, against my ego as your self-appointed stylist, if I let you leave without them.”

She smacks my arm with a silk hanger but can’t hide the grin stretching her face. I pull her onto my lap as I sit on the edge of the bed. Tabitha’s squeal breaks the manor’s evening hush. She flings garment bags across the bed, scattering designer labels like confetti, then launches at me.

This woman is a storm disguised as calm—the kind of woman who walks into a room and rearranges the air without so much as trying.

Makes me want to be better, not just wilder.

Being around her stokes something in me, a craving deeper than adrenaline—the hunger for connection, for something real beyond the rush.

She’s fire and ice and every quiet moment in between, and I’m hopelessly, recklessly caught in her orbit.

She kisses me hard, fingers sliding into my hair, body pressed against mine in a way that reminds me exactly how gratifying the dressing-room incident was earlier.

“I’d like to thank you properly,” she murmurs, warm palms slipping under my sweater, “if you give me thirty seconds to lock the door this time.”

“Who’s going to walk in? My brothers? It’s a little late to worry about them seeing you naked.”

She giggles, and fuck, if I don’t love that sound. “The housekeeper?”

“Carla? Nah. She’s like a ghost around here, and she values our privacy more than we do.” I grab her hips and grind her against me over our clothes. There’s something twisted about taking my time for this. Restraint when I know it’s not needed is its own kink.

I wrap an arm around her back and roll us over, so she’s face up. Her dark red hair spreads out behind her, wild and loose. She’s so damn pretty that for a second, my breath catches in my chest. But I can’t stare for long—those soft lips beckon.

I rock my hips against hers, letting her feel how hard she got me as we kiss. My blood pumps faster, and I need to be inside of her. The dressing room was a tease for myself—I need more. Right now.

I reach to yank off my sweater when my phone beeps. Instead of my sweater, I dig my phone from my pocket. “Let me just turn that off…” But it’s Nico. Shit.

Come to my office. Immediately.

Well, shit. “Sorry, baby. Duty calls.” I sigh and brush a thumb over her bottom lip. “Nico summoned me downtown. CFO emergency or some thrilling spreadsheet crisis, I’m sure.”

She groans, head dropping back. “Damn.”

I laugh, kiss her once more, then disentangle myself. “Try everything on. Leave nothing in a box. I’ll be back later, and you can demonstrate gratitude to your heart’s content.”

She salutes. I snag my helmet from the hall table, and her soft humming follows me down the staircase.

I hate leaving her, but I’m happy to help Nico. Twenty-four minutes later, I’m threading the Ducati through thin traffic toward the Moretti Brands tower. The sky’s pewter, the air knife-cold, but acceleration warms my veins. Never let it be said that I left my brother in a lurch.

I badge through lobby security, ride the elevator to the executive floor, and shove open Nico’s door with a jaunty, “Alright, CFO, whose Excel formula broke?—”

I stop dead.

That’s not Nico. Instead, Pietro Dumas reclines in his chair, polished oxfords propped on the desk like he’s measuring for a custom footrest.

My pulse spikes. “You lost, Dumas?”

He slides a look over the rim of Nico’s reading glasses. “Found exactly what I wanted, Signor Moretti.” His voice is velvet ice. “Take a seat.”

I stay standing. “Security in this building tends to spot uninvited guests and remove them quickly. Can’t imagine what’s keeping them.”

“Door codes are easier to bypass than you imagine. As are people.” He waggles Nico’s phone. “Spoof one phone, one badge, say hello to security like you’ve known them all their lives, and suddenly everyone and everything in the building thinks I’m family.”

“I’ll be sure to fire whoever you spoke to?—”

“Don’t blame them, Dante. It’s not their fault that I got to know your security team online before I ever stepped foot here. Besides, you have dozens of cousins. How were they supposed to know better?”

A sliver of unease skates down my spine. He’s not here to talk about our security team. He’s here to prove his power, that even our own building isn’t safe.

Fine. I’ll bite. “Making house calls isn’t standard customer-service procedure. Something wrong?”

“On the contrary. I always visit high-value bidders to remind them what’s at stake.” He taps a button on his phone and swivels the screen toward me.

The image punches the air from my lungs. Clear-as-day boutique security footage—me kneeling between Tabitha’s thighs, her gown around her hips, my mouth skimming downward. It’s time-stamped just hours ago.

He’s got eyes on us everywhere. “Nice angle. Too bad you couldn’t see what I was seeing.”

“Surveillance covers every square foot of my partner boutiques, and if you think I couldn’t, you’re sorely mistaken. I played this part of the footage to spare further impropriety.” He slips the phone back into his jacket.

My blood is boiling. “What’s going on, Dumas?”

“Think of it as an insurance policy.”

“Insurance against what?”

“Harm. Humiliation.” He steeples his fingers. “Publicly embarrass Miss Calloway—say, a leaked video of a dressing-room romp—and I will void your contract.”

“Her head is tipped back like that out of pleasure. Not harm. Have you never gone down on?—”

“Embarrassment counts as harm. If this footage were to leak, do you think she’d be happy about it?”

I swallow. The bastard has a point.

“You’ll forfeit controlling interest in Moretti Brands if this comes to light. This company would look rather handsome in my portfolio, don’t you think?”

My jaw tightens. “She wasn’t embarrassed. She was enjoying herself. And you’re the only person with the footage, right?”

“Intent is irrelevant. Perception is the metric.” His shoes shift, heel scuffing Nico’s desk—deliberate disrespect. “Keep your private fun private . No cameras. No leaks. No headlines.”

“You don’t get to threaten my family’s company over consensual sex.”

“You volunteered the leverage.” He taps the contract folder. “Signatures carry weight in my world, Mr. Moretti.”

The bastard’s calm needles me worse than yelling would. I school my face, remind myself that physical violence triggers worse consequences. “Fine,” I bite out. “We’ll be discreet.”

His mouth curves—not quite a smile, more a predator’s baring of teeth. He stands, adjusts his cuff links, strolls past. At the door he pauses, glances over his shoulder.

“Good boy,” he says, and saunters out.