Page 23 of Sold to the Silver Foxes (Forbidden Hearts #6)

TABITHA

The Aston Martin purrs along the two-lane highway like a satisfied jungle cat.

Frost rims the pines, and the sun turns them to silver bottlebrushes.

Sal keeps one gloved hand on the wheel, the other relaxed on the gear shift, posture as controlled as a ma?tre d’ at a Michelin restaurant.

I sit sideways, knees curled beneath me, watching him more than the scenery.

I clear my throat. “So…in case my family starts asking questions, how do we cover how we met?”

“At your restaurant?”

“That’ll work, I think. All kinds of people come in there, and technically, I did meet Dante there first. Okay. That feels like less of a lie than anything I came up with.”

He smirks at that and glances over, eyebrow cocked but encouraging. “No sense in creating a lie that doesn’t align with some truth.”

I exhale. “My mom always said if you must lie, add three details and a timeline.”

“Your mother was creative. I usually go with parallels to the truth in case anything sounds off. Human memories are faulty, so it tracks that details might not be perfect.”

The mention squeezes my heart—she’s been gone three Christmases now. “She would have liked you.”

Sal’s mouth curves. “I’ll take that for the compliment it is.”

Snow flurries scatter across the windshield, and for the first time in days, hope doesn’t seem like a melting snowflake.

We park at the hospital, because Sal doesn’t trust the valet with his baby. “The valet is a toddler. I doubt he can handle a stick shift.”

“He might surprise you.”

“Not with my car, he won’t.”

We wind through the halls until I see the sign for pediatric oncology. It smells like antiseptic and bubblegum. Erin’s room is a lavender cave lit by fairy string lights, and I can see her through the window in the door.

She looks so small. Smaller than last time. A knot forms in my throat, and I pause at the door. I hate this moment. Always. I can’t breathe?—

A warm weight sits on my shoulder. “Take a moment.”

I blink up at Sal. I forgot he was here when I saw her. “I’ve spent too many moments away from her.”

“You need to collect yourself or she’ll see the guilt on your face. Happy memories only for her right now, or you’ll hate yourself for not letting what could be her last moments be happy.”

His words strike at the hope in my heart. “How can you say that?”

“Experience.” He motions to guide me away from the window, and I let him.

“She’s heading into major surgery soon. If you let your guilt cloud your demeanor right now and you’re not the happy, bubbly sister she depends on…

” He pauses. “And the worst happens during her surgery, the guilt of that will eat at you for the rest of your life.”

I want to yell at him for making me think about this. For making me worry even more about her surgery going wrong. But I can’t. There’s a bitter wisdom to his words.

And there’s a reason for it. I can tell. “Who?”

He takes a beat and glances away. “My grandfather. Me and Nico didn’t always get along when we were kids.

The day our grandfather went in for a stent, we were arguing about something, I don’t know what.

He asked me to promise to look after my brothers, and I said I’d look after Dante, but Nico was on his own.

Nico heard me, and we nearly came to blows right in front of the old man.

” Guilt ruins his perfect posture for a flash.

“He was supposed to just get a stent, an easy procedure these days. Back then, not so much. He never woke up.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“So please, for your sister’s sake and yours, get your head right before you walk in there.”

I bob my head and shake it off. The grim thoughts, the guilt for not being here sooner, all of it. When I’m confident I can give her a real smile, I tell him. “Okay. Let’s go.”

It’s worth it. She squeals when I step through the door, IV line jerking as she lunges for a hug.

Her knit cat-ear cap has sparkly thread woven in, and she wears an oversized T-shirt that reads STEMinist in glitter paint—the one I gave her last year.

She’s lost most of her hair, so the caps help her feel less self-conscious.

A few random red curls poke out at the edges.

With any luck, she’ll have a head full of hair next year.

“Tabi, you smell like snow!” she chirps, nose wrinkling. I grin, ruffle her cap, then spin as Grandma Judy rounds the curtain, wiping her glasses with a tissue already damp.

She’s the source of our red hair, but not the curls. Hers is now littered with gray—her homemade glitter, she calls it. Trimmed into a sharp-edged bob at her chin. Erin has Grandma Judy’s eyes. I’ve always envied that since she was born. Sparkling, bright blue.

“Look at you, big shot consultant.” Grandma Judy squints at my parka, suspiciously high-end. “Nice coat.”

“Borrowed,” I fib. We hug, and her lavender scent wraps me in childhood.

“The surgery is earlier than expected, but the doctor says sooner is safer.”

I nod, throat tight. Erin’s tumor—an astrocytoma coiled around her spinal cord and nudging her brain stem—waits for no one and nothing, not even the holidays.

Grandma’s gaze flicks to the doorway as Sal follows me in, bearing a donut box and a plush snow fox we picked up along the way. She straightens, smoothing her thrift-store cardigan. I make introductions, and Sal’s Italian vowels melt Grandma’s reserve quicker than microwaved butter.

Still, I see her calculating eyes. Who is this tall man, and what is he to you?

A friend, I try to silently convey.

A naked friend? her arched brow seems to ask.

I roll my eyes, refusing to continue this conversation and glancing away so she doesn’t see me blush.

Erin doesn’t notice any of it. Her eyes widen as Sal passes her the stuffed snow fox. “I hear you’re fond of these.”

She giggles, hugging the toy. Grandma’s shoulders drop an inch—tentative approval earned. For now.

I exhale—first hurdle cleared.

Erin starts in on her area of expertise.

“They’re my favorite land animal. They have fur on the soles of their feet, which is unusual for most mammals, even those that live in their habitat, the Arctic.

They’re opportunistic eaters too—berries, eggs, carrion, anything they can digest. Sometimes, they hunt in packs, but mostly solo. ”

Sal sits with rapt attention, hanging on her every word. “Why are they your favorite land animal?”

“They’re so flexible, you know what I mean? They’re real survivors.”

He nods sagely. “Admirable qualities.”

“What’s your favorite land animal?”

“Hmm…”

I cut in. “I don’t think Sal has a favorite land animal?—”

“Beavers,” he interrupts.

I might die. Is he…is that a euphemism? I’m frozen in the moment, wishing it would end.

Erin asks, “Why beavers?” with all the innocence of a child.

Don’t say something pervy. You are too old for that ? —

“They’re utterly resourceful. When they come to an area that would be a good home, they build it from the ground up, no architect, no foreman. They simply get to work, and they don’t stop until they’re done. The ponds and lodges they build end up being great resources for other animals, as well.”

Erin smiles, and so do I. I should have had more faith that he wasn’t about to say something inappropriate. My sister asks, “What’s your favorite water animal?”

This goes on for a while, and the whole time they talk about animals, I’m pretty sure Erin’s building a little crush on Sal. I’ll allow it. This is the most engaged I’ve seen her in a long time.

After an hour of animal trivia and hospital Jell-O reviews, a nurse ushers Erin to radiology for pre-op scans. Grandma Judy follows, but pulls me aside in the hallway first. Her brave face slips the moment Erin is out of earshot.

“Honey, I’m grateful the money arrived,” she whispers, twisting her ring. “But anesthesia, ICU, rehab lodging—these extras stack up. And Dr. Shah says we’ll need an adaptive van if Erin can’t regain full leg strength.”

The new totals scrawl across my mind like a tab I can’t pay. Even with Moretti money, unseen costs loom. That’s why I’m here, I remind myself. I grip Grandma’s hand. “We’ll handle it. Just focus on tomorrow.”

She searches my face—mothering instinct alive and well. “You sure this consultant job is legit?”

My smile wobbles. “As legit as anything ever is.”

Before she can probe, a volunteer cart full of storybooks jingles by. Grandma excuses herself, leaving me alone with a fresh load of guilt.

I lean against the wall, squeezing my eyes shut. The auction, the contract, Pietro’s threats—they blur into noise compared to the surgical countdown clock overhead.

Warmth brushes my arm. Sal is suddenly beside me, offering a paper cup of coffee.

“Heard part of that,” he says quietly. “Adaptive van, extended rehab—consider them done.”

Tears sting. “I can’t let you?—”

“Tabitha. The transfer was not charity. It was responsibility for someone we…value.”

His pause before value makes my heartbeat stumble. “I can’t pay it back.”

“A gift is not a loan.”

I nod, unable to speak. He doesn’t push, just stands sentinel while I gather myself and sip my coffee.

Eventually, Erin’s bed is wheeled back in, with Grandma Judy beside her.

Sal anchors one elbow on the rail and launches into a dramatic tale of a runway disaster in Milan where a model’s heel snapped mid-catwalk.

He mimics the slow-motion flail with such earnest exaggeration that Erin howls, pillow pressed to her surgical line to dull the giggles.

Grandma laughs too, leaning against the windowsill. I hover by the IV pole, breathless from secondhand joy. Sal’s face softens as he watches Erin laugh—a softness that flicks my insides like a tuning fork.

Erin, wiping tears, asks him about Paris.

“Do you eat croissants the size of your head?”

“Is the Eiffel Tower taller than our hospital?”

He answers each question with patient gravitas, promising tours when she’s recovered. There’s a gravity and gentleness here—nothing like the guarded CEO I first met.

When Erin grows drowsy, he dims the lights and lowers the bed for her. Grandma slips out to call insurance (again). Sal stands at the foot of the bed, gaze lingering on Erin’s sleeping face—eyes soft, lips pinched.

I step beside him, wrap both arms around his coat sleeve, rest my cheek against the fabric. “You’re good with her.”

His hand covers mine. “Children see past facades. Can’t bluff with them.” A beat. “Your sister is extraordinary.”

“So are you.”

He softly chuckles, but doesn’t answer. Instead, his thumb strokes my knuckles.

The drive back is quieter. Snow thickens into fat flakes. I watch them halo the headlights, mind looping through Grandma’s cost arithmetic, Erin’s brave grin, Sal’s vow.

Halfway home, I speak. “I lied again.”

Sal’s brow furrows. “About?”

“About this being just a job. It stopped feeling like that the moment you met Erin at her level.” My voice trembles. “I don’t know where to put these feelings.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. The wipers swish. “I’m still placing mine.” He glances over, eyes dark as the road. “But they’re…no longer negotiable.”

My chest floods with heat—fear and relief tangoing. I nod, throat too tight for words, and slide my hand into his on the console. He curls fingers around mine, squeezes once.

We pull into Villa Moretti’s snow-dusted courtyard. Lanterns glow gold against the navy sky. He cuts the engine, but neither of us moves. I trace a circle on his glove. “Thank you for today.”

“Thank you for trusting me.”

We exit, boots crunching fresh powder. At the door, he hesitates, turns, brushes a snowflake from my lash. “Go rest. There’s much to prepare for.”

“Like your judgmental relatives.”

He smirks. “The holidays drain us all, don’t they?”

I laugh, the sound fogging between us. Then, impulsively, I rise on tiptoe and kiss him. It’s gentle but it carries a plea. Please keep anchoring me.

He answers, his tongue slipping into my mouth as we make out, until cold nips my ears.

Inside, the corridor’s evergreen scent greets us. We part ways at the stair landing—his hand trailing down my arm, reluctant. I climb to my suite, heart ready to shatter.

I can’t do this.

My feet carry me to Sal’s door down the hall, and I knock.

The moment he opens it, I can’t wait. I barrel at him, lips first, body pressing against him as I push him deeper into the room and kick the door closed behind me.

A low, approving rumble comes from his throat as I pull his sweater over his head.

He does the same to me, fingers fumbling for the button on my jeans as I kiss him harder.

I can’t tear myself away from this man.

When we’re naked, I start to fall to my knees, but he grabs me under my ass and lifts. I loop my legs around him as he carries me to his bed, and we kiss all the way there. This isn’t like the other times. The others aren’t here.

It’s just us.

It’s just now.

He lays me on my back, his cock laying against my pussy, just resting, not entering. He holds me in his arms and looks at me like he’s memorizing my face. His thumb runs along my bottom lip. “You are…” He never finishes the sentence, instead lunging for a kiss that sears us together.

My body aches for him, and I cock my hips up to capture his body in mine. Just as the tip of his cock notches, he pulls back. But I explain, “It’s fine. We don’t need a condom?—”

He shutters his near-black eyes, and frost replaces the heat between us. “I can’t do this.”

“What? Why?”

He swallows. “I just…” He stands up, staring out the window. “Please, Tabitha. I can’t.”

I don’t know what this is about, but it’s clear he won’t tell me yet. He’s not like Dante with his emotions at the surface, or Nico who’s disconnected from his emotions most of the time. Sal’s got his own baggage, and it takes time for him to unpack it.

That doesn’t mean this doesn’t sting.

I swallow and sit up, shrugging on my clothes. “Alright.”

“It’s not you?—”

“I know.” I hike my jeans up.

“I mean it, Tabitha. I’m not trying to hurt your feelings. Don’t be angry.”

That makes me smile, even though I’m dying inside. I touch the side of his face. The man is practically panicked, trying to make sure he hasn’t upset me. How could I be mad at that?

“Sal, I know. I don’t know what’s going on inside your head, and that’s okay.

What I do know is that I felt closer to you today than I’ve felt with anyone in a long time, and that’s what this was about for me.

” I pause, trying to find a graceful exit.

“I’m going to get cleaned up and ready for the party, okay? ”

He nods and kisses my palm.

Salvatore Moretti is the most complicated person I’ve ever met. It’ll take time to unravel his mysteries.

Time I don’t have.