Page 16 of Sold to the Silver Foxes (Forbidden Hearts #6)

NICO

I exit the executive elevator thirty-three minutes later than planned, and I’m already rehearsing an apology to the global-sourcing team I left cooling on a Zoom call. I round the corner toward my office and nearly collide with Pietro Dumas.

He’s adjusting a cuff link like he has all the time in the world. The hallway’s soft LEDs catch the platinum silk of his tie—too flashy for legitimate business but perfect for dramatic theater.

What in the ever-loving fuck is going on?

I stop short. “Mr. Dumas.” The syllables taste like iron.

He offers a smile that never reaches his eyes, his voice flat and deep. “Niccolò. Good to see you keep late hours.”

My gaze skims past him. My door is ajar and frames Dante. He’s fuming, fists balled.

If I throw Dumas out, that may affect things with Tabitha, and I’m not willing to risk that. Stiffly, I ask, “Was there a meeting scheduled I wasn’t informed about?”

“Not at all.” He steps aside, leaving a sliver of path. “Just checking on my investment.”

Heat prickles behind my ears. Investment. The word has teeth. I count to three before speaking—a habit born of a lifetime smoothing Dante’s PR fires. “Tabitha is a person, not an asset.”

He straightens the knot at his throat, unbothered. “Ask your brother to brief you. I believe you’ll find the conversation…enlightening.”

Then he strolls past glass and bronze sculptures like he owns the floor. A flick of his wrist sends the elevator whisking him down. I won’t give him the satisfaction of watching me chase him, so I pivot into my office.

Dante sits perched on the edge of my desk, helmet and motorcycle jacket discarded. He’s rolling a silver paperweight over his knuckles—one of my awards for fiscal stewardship. When he sees my expression, he sets it down silently.

I close the door with more force than necessary. “Want to tell me why the head of the Dumas family just walked out of my office?”

“Correction,” Dante says, attempting nonchalance. “ A head. Pietro’s the charming public face. Apparently, he wanted to see me.”

“In my office.”

He lifts a shoulder. “He was already parked in your chair when I arrived. He spoofed your phone to text me, faked a badge to get past security, spied on our guards to act like he belongs here… The man knows what he’s doing, Nico.”

I study him—loose posture, but tension radiates off his shoulders like heat. He’s rattled. Good. That means my instinct to panic isn’t an overreaction. I tug my cuffs straight and move behind the desk. The physical barrier helps.

“Details,” I demand.

Dante recounts the boutique surveillance video, Pietro’s warning about public embarrassment, the threat of contract forfeiture. He spares me none of the humiliating bits. By the time he finishes, a dull throb pulses behind my left eye.

“This is on me,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose.

Dante frowns. “How, exactly?”

“I’m the one who brushed off my instincts. Should have vetted every inch of that contract.”

He huffs. “We all signed. We’re all culpable.”

Perhaps, but paperwork is my kingdom. I should have stopped this. Allowing a crime family to have leverage over us is negligence of the highest order.

I rub a hand over the throb in my temple. Pietro is no philanthropist. If he’s dangling threats this early, he wants a reason to seize the brand—preferably with plausible deniability. Get the brothers to trip a clause, swoop in, take control.

“Sal needs to know,” I say.

“He’s at a board-prep dinner with Legal.” Dante checks his watch. “Let him finish the meal. We’ll brief him at home.”

I nod—reluctant but pragmatic. “Security upgrades?”

“Already texted two white-hat hackers.” He taps his phone. “Firewall audit by morning.”

I exhale. One crisis managed, a dozen more lurking. “After you get them to paper over the security team’s social media accounts, go home. I’ll finalize what I have to do and follow.”

He pushes off the desk. “Tabitha’s rattled. I texted her about Pietro’s little visit—figured honesty beats rumors.”

I stiffen. That disclosure feels premature, but damage is done. “How rattled?”

“Enough that she asked if there could be fallout for her family.” He grimaces. “I gave reassurances, but you’re the credibility brother. She’ll want to hear it from you.”

Great. Add emotional crutch to tonight’s agenda. “I’ll do what I can.” I always do.

Dante pockets the paperweight—then thinks better of it, sets it back, and strides out.

When the door shuts, I fold forward, elbows on the desk, palms over my eyes until I remember Pietro sat here. I reach for disinfectant wipes—a ridiculous gesture, yet scrubbing the smudges helps. When the surface gleams clean again, I breathe easier. Order restored—cosmetically, at least.

A calendar alert chimes: Asia e-commerce forecast due Monday. I silence it. There’s only one forecast that matters tonight—likelihood of a Dumas takeover versus our ability to steer this month without triggering a fucking clause.

When I’m home, it’s a breath of fresh air. At least I know Pietro won’t show up here, and if he does it won’t be for long. Carla, our beloved housekeeper, would end him. None of us are dumb enough to cross that woman, and she’d never give us a reason to.

The villa is quieter than usual, hall sconces dialed to a golden glow. Tabitha’s suite door is ajar. I knock. “It’s just me.”

She’s curled on the window seat in flannel pajamas, knees to chest, hair spilling over one shoulder.

The golden lighting in her room makes her hair appear as if on fire.

A box of macarons sits untouched beside her.

When she sees me she straightens, trying to mask anxiety with a smile.

“Hey, CFO,” she says, faux casual. “Back from saving the empire?”

“Always a work in progress.” I step inside and cross to the window. Cold moonlight washes her features. I perch on the opposite end of the window bench, leaving polite distance. “Dante told me he mentioned Pietro’s visit.”

She nods, worries the hem of her sleeve. “Is the company really at risk because of me?”

“No.” I keep my tone definitive. “Moretti Brands stands on solid ground. Pietro’s threats rely on contract technicalities. We simply won’t breach them.”

She exhales. “Okay.” A beat. “What if he finds another clause or whatever?”

“I will anticipate every clause by morning.” It’s bravado, but she needs certainty, and—if I’m honest—so do I. “It’s nothing for you to worry about, sweetheart.”

Her gaze searches mine. “You seem so calm.”

I offer a wry smile. “Internal panic rarely solves external problems.”

“No, but it’s okay to be human, Nico.”

Her words hit hard, weirdly. I’m drawn not just to the curve of her smile or the way her eyes catch light like a secret, but to the sharpness beneath it all—the insight that cuts through my usual defenses. Tabitha doesn’t just listen. She hears.

I swallow to disguise any emotion in my voice. “I won’t pretend this is trivial. Please understand that you did nothing wrong, Tabitha. Any risk comes from my oversight.”

She shakes her head. “I agreed to the contract too.”

“Under extreme circumstances. My brothers and I should have protected you from hidden landmines.” Anger at myself burns behind my ribs. “We will—from now on.”

Something shifts in her expression. She inches closer on the bench until her socked foot brushes my thigh. “Thank you, Nico.”

I’m not prepared for the jolt her nearness delivers. All day, spreadsheets and crisis scenarios have insulated me from feeling anything but frustration and anger, and now her softness penetrates the facade. I clear my throat, intending to stand—but she slips her hand over mine.

“Tabitha—”

She leans in, resting her head on my shoulder. “Can we…not think about it for a minute?”

The request disarms me. What do I do now? This closeness was not listed on the contract, and as much as I’m accustomed to leading in a scene, this isn’t that either.

I try for what’s natural and slide an arm around her, pulling her gently against my side. The scent of lavender laundry soap and something undeniably her curls into my lungs. We sit like that, watching moonlight silver the lawn.

After a stretch of silence she whispers, “You really have everything under control?”

“It’s nothing I can’t handle.” I turn my head, and her lips are inches away.

The rational part of me advises distance—sexual encounters are fine, but this?

This feels intimate in a different way, which complicates the protective calculus.

But the heat in her eyes eclipses caution, and the weight of the day melts under resignation. I brush a thumb along her cheek.

“Show me,” she murmurs.

My self-control snaps, quietly and completely.

I capture her mouth, hand sliding to the small of her back, drawing her flush. She answers with a soft moan that vibrates against my tongue. When we break for air, her pupils are wide, skin flushed.

“Bed,” I say—one word, clipped, a command and a plea.

She rises, leads me across the Persian rug. At the mattress edge, I pause, fingers at her pajama buttons. “Cherry?” I ask—a final check. No sense in misreading this. I already feel like I’m out of bounds.

She shakes her head, eyes shining. “Grapes, apples, cherries, whatever fruit—you’re safe.”

A laugh escapes me—brief, startling—and then words are useless. I lift her onto the bed, slide beside her, and let precision yield to instinct.

Work crises can wait. Pietro’s schemes can wait.

I cannot. My restraint is holding on by a thread. “How much do you like these pajamas?”

“I just got them?—”

I rip the top open, and buttons scatter like fireworks. I’ve thought about her tits all day long. It was the only thing that got me through the day. I wanted to take my time, be the cool, calm guy for her. Right now, I don’t have it in me.

She squeals for a second, then giggles. “What the hell?”

But I jerk her pajama pants down and fall to my knees. This girl isn’t wearing underwear. Just knee socks now. Fuck.

“Lie back.”