Page 20 of Sold to the Silver Foxes (Forbidden Hearts #6)

DANTE

If holiday excess were an Olympic event, the Moretti family would medal every year. And by family, I mean me.

Right now, I’m orchestrating the opening ceremony. Standing in the marble foyer of Villa Moretti with a clipboard, three radios clipped to my waist, and a mental map of decorations so elaborate even Santa would need blueprints.

Crystal icicles dangle from twenty-foot beams. Red velvet swags loop balcony rails.

An eight-piece string ensemble rehearses “Carol of the Bells” on the mezzanine—my favorite Christmas song.

Something about the relentless rhythm reminds me of how it feels right before you take the leap off the side of a building, that pulse-pounding, relentless rush.

Staff wheel in a gingerbread replica of the estate—complete with spun-sugar topiaries—and park it under a chandelier the size of a Fiat.

Tabitha walks in wearing jeans and a beige oversized cashmere sweater, eyes like saucers.

She looks like a model, and there’s not a stitch of makeup on her face or product in her hair.

She’s like our very own Christmas angel come to life.

But since she’s a demon in the sack, that imagery doesn’t really work.

And anxiety is etched on her pretty face.

I sketch the final placement for the ice-sculpture raw-bar sleigh, then notice how tight she’s clutching her phone. Maybe if I tease her a little, she’ll relax. “First time at a Moretti pre-holiday bash?”

She exhales a breath that could fog glass. “I thought the villa last week was extravagant. This is…Versailles auditioning to be a Rockette.”

“It’s a showy handshake to extended family and investors.” I snap my clipboard shut. “But yes, it tends to blow fuses. Literal or otherwise.”

Her gaze flits from the twenty-foot fir to the staircase garland. “You warned me about your relatives being inquisitive—sorry, judgmental . What if I trip over the social rules and land in the caviar?”

“Then Nico will lecture you on fish-roe inflation while Sal silently dies inside,” I joke, but her nervous half smile tells me humor’s not enough tonight.

She brushes invisible lint from her sweater. “I keep replaying the DeRossi grape debacle. I don’t want to screw up with your family.”

“We handled that. You were great.” I tuck a loose strand of her auburn hair behind her ear, lowering my voice. “Trust me, half these people still think Wi-Fi is a champagne brand. We’ll be fine.”

She nods, not convinced. And an urge grips me—not to see her laugh, but to see her fearless. Because fearless Tabitha is a comet, and this party deserves comet energy. And so does she.

It’s three-plus hours until the caterer’s final walk-through. We have the time. “Field trip.”

“Field trip? I have plenty of clothes.”

“Not for clothes. There’s something else you need.”

Her brows knit. “But the party?—”

“Runs on autopilot for two hours. Come on.” I grab my leather jacket, toss her Sal’s spare parka. “I’ve got a fast cure for nerves.”

She eyes me skeptically. “You don’t even get nervous. Sal says you cage-dive with sharks to relax.”

“Well…I do.” I swing the villa’s side door open, a blast of alpine air cutting through incense and spruce. “But believe it or not, some things rattle me. And my secret cure works every time.”

She zips the parka, lifts her chin. “Then lead the way, Daredevil.”

Forty minutes and one icy mountain road later, I’m guiding my trusty ’68 Land Rover through frost-rimmed pine tunnels toward Frost Ridge Amusement Park. It’s closed for the winter—unless you wire a donation big enough to thaw frozen turnstiles.

Tabitha rubs the passenger-side window clear of breath fog. “You realize my entire concept of ‘blowing off steam’ is a hot bath and an audiobook.”

“You’ll upgrade today.” I downshift, tires crunching snow. Beyond the locked gates, the park lies wrapped in hibernation. Silent coasters, carousels under tarp cocoons, kettle-corn scent replaced by crisp cedar air.

Security meets us at the gate, radio chatter confirming authorization. We’re waved through like royalty arriving at a deserted candy kingdom.

“They’re not even open?—”

“They are for us.”

“What did you do?”

I chuckle. “What I have to.”

Tabitha’s breath catches as we park near a towering steel structure veining the gray sky. A scar-red plummet, psychotic drop, loops vanishing into clouds. Thunderhead. Tallest coaster in the Northeast, and my personal church.

She tilts her head back to look up at it until her hood brushes the seat. “That thing looks unfinished.”

“Just unmerciful,” I correct. “Two-hundred-and-twelve-foot first drop, top speed ninety-five miles per hour.”

She turns slowly. “You bring all your dates here?”

“Just you.”

Her breath catches as she locks those olive-green eyes on me. “I?—”

“Come on.” I pop open my door and get out. The cold air hits, clean and cutting. Whatever she was about to say, there was weight to it. I’m not ready for that. I don’t think she is either.

The maintenance manager—mustache frosted, hands in orange gloves—has the train idling on the transfer track, heaters keeping hydraulics supple in the cold. He offers padded headsets and a clipboard of waivers.

Tabitha scans the paperwork, eyes widening. “It literally says ‘warning—risk of cardiac episode.’”

“Lawyers.” I sign both lines, and hand her a pen. “Always skittish.”

“Comforting,” she says flatly. She scribbles her name, shivering more from adrenaline than cold, I suspect.

We climb frosted steps to the loading platform. Overhead, floodlights turn snow flurries into swirling confetti. The train looks theatrical—ruby-red cars like Christmas baubles strung along steel. I choose the front row, always.

Tabi captures my arm. “The front?”

“Best view.” I pull down her lap bar, tug my own until it clicks. “Remember, breathe on the climb, scream on the drop, laugh at the bottom.”

She clutches the handle. “If I pass out, sprinkle coffee on me. It’s the only way to bring me back to life.”

“I’m sure I can figure out a more fun way to do that.”

The operator gives a thumbs-up, and we’re off.

The hydraulic hiss makes me grin, then the train glides forward, chain catching with clack-clack-clack inevitability.

In the back of my mind, it’s “Carol of the Bells” again.

Relentless, rhythmic. The forest line drops away until even the villa’s roof could hide in a pine needle.

Halfway up, I hear Tabitha’s abrupt inhale. The wind knifes through my jacket but the tightness in my chest isn’t chill—it’s confession-level nerves.

“You really want to know what scares me?” I shout over the ratchet.

She turns, face pale. “Yes!”

“You.” The word leaves my mouth like a punch. I can’t stop it. I’m too hyped to lie, too stupid to think when it comes to Tabi. “I can free-solo a cliff, but one judgmental look from you last night when DeRossi sneered—and I panicked.”

For a second, she forgets the height. Her eyes widen, shocked warmth. “I make you panic?”

I nod, heart hammering harder than any pre-jump. “Because you matter to me. And that’s scarier than gravity.”

Her expression softens, tension easing in her shoulders. She exhales, reaches across the safety bar, and laces her fingers through mine just as the train crests the hill.

The whole world stalls. We hang in weightless twilight. A whisper of snow, a hush before thunder.

Then the track vanishes beneath us.

We plummet—negative G-force yanking my guts to my throat. The wind roars, and tears streak my temples from the dry air. Tabitha screams a note that morphs from terror to feral delight. Her grip crushes my hand, and the shared adrenaline floods me with a chemical joy no wingsuit ever matched.

We bottom out, whip through the first over-banked turn, and climb again into a zero-G roll. The sky flips, the earth reappears, frost glitter explodes in the air. She’s laughing now—loud and unselfconscious—and each sound spike jacks my pulse higher.

Midway through the double corkscrew, she risks a glance. Eyes shining, cheeks flushed, mouth open in a wild grin, wisps of hair trailing from her messy bun. That image slams into my chest harder than G-force ever could.

The ride rockets into the final drop, brake fins hiss, and we slam to a stop under a snowfall of vapor. She’s panting, hair static-starred, still clutching my hand.

I laugh, breathless. “Better?”

She laughs back—equal parts triumph and post-terror shakes. “My fear just got drop-kicked off a cliff.”

The operator jogs up with a thumbs-up, offering a second lap. Tabitha waves him off, dizzy. We stumble down the exit ramp into crunching snow. She spins once, arms out, like a kid dizzy from the tilt-a-whirl. Then she hurls herself at me—wraps arms around my neck, kisses me under the darkening sky.

The kiss is cold air and hot adrenaline, her lips chapped sweet, my heart still sprinting, the world still spinning. When she pulls back, she presses her forehead to mine. “Okay, Daredevil. I’m ready for your relatives.”

I grin, brushing a snowflake off her lashes. “They have nothing on Thunderhead. I, however, have one advantage.” I tuck a loose strand behind her ear. “I come with hand-holding included.”

She squeezes my fingers. “That helped more than the lap bar.”

The maintenance manager activates coaster lights for night photos—rails glow candy-cane red and white. It’s strange. I realize I’m not thinking about Aunt Caterina’s interrogation or investor small talk. I’m thinking about how Tabitha’s laughter felt as we plunged into free fall.

If fear is a compass, mine’s pointing straight at her.

Maybe it was stupid to tell her all that stuff. I know our situation isn’t real. She’s a rental, so to speak. But I couldn’t stop myself.

That should scare me more than it does.