Page 18 of Sold to the Silver Foxes (Forbidden Hearts #6)

SALVATORE

The cleaners have ironed my tuxedo to within an inch of its life, yet the bow tie they produced is a crime—black polyester masquerading as silk. In what world are they the same? I take the proper tie from my wardrobe, and knot it myself in the mirror. Hands steady, breath slow. Image immaculate.

Or it would be, if the dull ache under my sternum would settle down. It’s not the searing vise that pinned me to the floor six months ago—just a small, malicious pinch, like a reminder voicemail from my mortality.

Still here, Sal. Tick-tock.

Fuck off. I’m only forty-five.

I roll my shoulders once, inhaling through my nose, counting four beats, exhaling six. The discomfort eases but doesn’t vanish. Good enough for now, I suppose.

Dante breezes past my open door, already in white dinner jacket, humming Sinatra. “You driving, biggest brother?”

“I’ll take the wheel.” My voice emerges calm, clipped. I need the focus of a long drive, and letting Dante pilot any vehicle is like trusting a pyromaniac with kerosene. If I wanted another heart attack, I’d pass him the keys.

He salutes and disappears. Nico follows, pocket square aligned to the micron, murmuring to his phone. Neither glances twice when I wince at the tug in my chest. I’ve concealed worse from them before.

I reach for cuff links—white gold, mother-of-pearl centers. The box lid trembles as I lift it. Annoying. Of all the things I do in a day, this should not be what slows me down. Clasp, twist, breathe. By the time I finish, my pulse has steadied to a low rumble.

A soft knock. “Sal? May I come in?”

Tabitha. She steps through holding a pair of strappy heels like contraband. Midnight-blue gown—a rich dream poured over her curves. My chest twinges again, though not from plaque.

Her eyes sweep my face. “Everything okay?”

“Perfect.” Habit snaps the answer out before I weigh it.

“Hmm.” She closes the door, sets the shoes on an ottoman, and walks closer, gaze narrowed. “You’re pale.”

“Natural Sicilian pallor,” I say, attempting dryness.

“Your people are olive-skinned and tan, not pale like my people.” She touches my wrist—cool fingertips, measured pressure. Almost as if she knows what she’s doing. “Your pulse is fast.”

“Are you a nurse?”

There’s a flicker in her eyes as she releases my wrist. “No.”

“Pre-event adrenaline,” I assure her. “I’m fine, Tabitha.”

Concern furrows her brow. “If you need to sit, or?—”

“I need to arrive on time.” My tone edges sharper than intended. Her shoulders hitch. I regret the reflex, but can’t unwind it. I add, softer, “Thank you for asking.”

A moment stretches. She nods, eyes still watchful, then bends to slip on her heels. When she straightens, she’s regal despite visible nerves. “Ready when you are.”

“Alright,” I say, offering my arm. “Let’s go.”

Her fingers wrap around my elbow, warm and tenuous. As we walk out, I’m not sure what to think of her. In some ways, I like that she spotted my troubles. She pays more attention than my own brothers. But that’s also a problem. If she figures things out…

I can’t let anyone know about my heart condition. It’s pride, sure, but it’s also business.

No one wants a CEO who might drop dead at any moment.

The private dining salon at La Cattedrale glitters with crystal and low conversation.

Twenty investors—some old-money Italians, several new Silicon-Valley faces, one razor-sharp Saudi fund manager—stand when we enter.

Cameras click for internal PR only. I position Tabitha at my left, hand resting lightly at her waist, broadcasting possession and endorsement.

Introductions cycle. She holds her own until we reach Massimo DeRossi, the vineyard baron and notorious pedant. He lifts her hand to kiss the air above her knuckles. She blushes, unsure whether to curtsy, and murmurs, “Pleasure to meet you, Signor Dee-ROSS-ee .”

He corrects her, smugly. “ Deh-ROH-see. Accent on the second syllable.”

A faint flush climbs her neck. I slide in. “Signor DeRossi is forgiving—the only thing he loves more than Sangiovese is instructing the world how to pronounce it.” Light chuckles ripple, and Massimo’s ego is soothed.

Tabitha exhales, tossing me a grateful glance, before smiling coquettishly at him. “Then, I’d hate to deprive him of the chance to school me. I’ll be sure to mispronounce things for you, sir.”

He tosses his head back, a quick laugh. “Oh, I like her, Salvatore. Bring her to Tuscany in the summer. I’ll be happy to teach that tongue of hers a thing or two.”

She blushes prettily, but I teasingly scowl at him. “Tuscany in summer? Surely you jest. Summers are for the mountains…” That bomb diffused, we move on to the first course. Oysters with blood-orange mignonette—she hesitates over which fork.

How did I not see this coming? This is not her world, yet we presumed she’d slide right into the slot of “fake girlfriend who knows high society.” I feel like a dumbass.

No time to dwell on it, though. I shift my dessert spoon subtly, signaling configuration, and she follows. No one notices. Her shoulders lower by millimeters as she navigates the shellfish, watching my every move. With surprise, she murmurs, “That’s delicious.”

I wonder how many firsts she will experience with us.

Conversation ranges from currency hedging to crypto regulation. She listens, nods, sips wine. I lean near once, whisper, “Ask Elena about her nonprofit. She’ll light up.” Tabitha pivots, draws the Swiss venture capitalist into animated chatter about her girls’ STEM programs. Flawless execution.

Between courses Nico discusses next-quarter sustainability metrics. Dante jokes about biodegradable snowboard wax to break the tension, and laughter softens cost-cutting lines. I watch Tabitha laugh along, and find myself doing the same. The panic about her fitting in fades to nothingness.

The main course is veal medallions in a Barolo reduction. The sommelier pours DeRossi’s flagship reserve. Tabitha lifts her glass, inhales appreciatively, and says just loud enough, “Mmm, love that smoky merlot finish.”

Silence pricks the tablecloth. Merlot? Barolo producers treat that comparison like slander.

I intercede before Massimo’s eyebrows climb off his skull. “Interesting palate,” I say, smiling calmly. “Barolo’s elegance sometimes masks its darker notes. Tabitha spent years in bistros—merlot is her baseline. Good catch, doll.”

Her eyes dart to mine, questions haunting her. She knows she screwed up again. But DeRossi relaxes, pontificates about Nebbiolo versus Bordeaux terroir, and defuses the crisis.

She leans toward me during dessert. “I mixed up the grapes, didn’t I?”

“Completely,” I murmur, amused. “But you recovered.”

“Because you saved me.”

“Team effort. Massimo likes you enough to let it slide.” I sip espresso, trying to ignore the profundity of the statement.

Massimo doesn’t like anyone. For him to participate in moving the conversation along instead of embarrassing her, that means he likes her a lot, and that is great for business.

We say final goodbyes amid a flurry of double-cheek kisses. Outside, cold air scrapes our lungs clean after the restaurant’s warmth. My earlier chest discomfort tries one more jab—sharp but brief. I mask it by adjusting my cuff.

Tabitha notices. Of course she does. Her hand grazes my forearm. “It’s back, isn’t it?”

“Merely indigestion.”

Her gaze refuses to yield.

I relent, exhale. “I’m fine. I promise.”

“I’m holding you to that,” she says. “I like you in one piece.”

A laugh breaks free—gravelly, surprised. “Noted.”

The valet pulls up and before we slide into the car, Tabitha pauses, rises on tiptoe, and kisses the corner of my mouth. Not the hot, urgent kisses of our first night—a small, sweet peck. For some reason, it hits harder.

I let Nico drive, while he and Dante go on about the presentation. For once, my youngest brother is engaged in business talk, and yet, I can’t be bothered. Not with Tabitha leaning on my shoulder as though it’s her favorite place to be.

I fight the urge to kiss the top of her head. I’m not sure why I have the urge or why I’m fighting it. But it feels intimate in a way I’m not ready for. Hell, I’m not sure why I’m in my head about it. It’s just a kiss. I’ve kissed her plenty.

So, I dot the top of her head with one more, earning a sleepy, contented sigh from her that lifts the pressure in my chest.

As the villa gates appear, I admit—silent, careful—that I enjoy the weight of this woman leaning on me. That her steel-laced sweetness hits a spot I didn’t know I needed hit. She doesn’t let me get away with bullshit excuses, and I’m not sure why I find that alluring. But I do.