Page 24 of Sold to the Silver Foxes (Forbidden Hearts #6)

DANTE

If Santa Claus ever merged with a Renaissance prince, he’d throw a holiday bash exactly like this one.

The ballroom glows beneath a lattice of crystal snowflakes the size of parasols.

Live fir trees—twelve in total, one for each house of the wider Moretti clan—line the walls, lit from inside their trunks so the needles sparkle like emerald fiber optics.

A string quartet in crimson velvet plays swing versions of carols from a balcony, and the scent of truffle canapés drifts under my nose like a flirtatious ghost.

I’ve just completed lap number two of do-you-need-anything-Aunt-Caterina duty when I spot Tabitha at the top of the marble staircase.

She’s wearing the emerald dress Nico fitted the other day—silk, a deep V, train kissing each step. For a heartbeat, every conversation in the hall seems to hush. Even the orchestra holds back a beat as if to acknowledge new royalty.

I meet her halfway up the stairs, offer my arm. “Showtime, baby.”

She inhales, and her grip on my sleeve is white-knuckled. “If anyone asks about my job?—”

“Dance consultant,” I finish. “You choreograph our runway show, our commercials, and keep us from walking like nervous flamingos.”

That earns a small laugh. “Flamingos, got it.”

We descend into a sea of Morettis. Within seconds, the swirl starts. A third cousin wants insider stock tips. Great Aunt Graziella demands an update on my nonexistent BASE jumping ban. An elderly uncle offers Tabitha a glass of Chianti and pronounces her name Tobitha with a toothy grin.

Tabitha handles each greeting with poise, but I see the flicker of panic when someone asks, “So, dear, are you the girlfriend or a girlfriend?”

I squeeze her hand. “She’s ours,” I say simply, and steer her onward before they can untangle the implications.

It’s fun to give them a puzzle to ponder, and a scandalous puzzle is the best kind.

Twenty minutes in, we’re cornered by a quartet of great nieces who, despite being twelve, are terrifying in their mastery of gossip.

“Dante,” the ringleader Rhea says, “Nonna keeps asking whether you’ll finally marry.” She eyeballs Tabitha’s bare left hand. “Should we be practicing flower-girl duties?”

“If you do a good flower-girl routine, your allowance immediately doubles,” I counter. “So by all means, go practice.”

They squeal—uncertain whether I’m joking—then scamper off to the dessert table. Tabitha exhales. “You deflected that like a Jedi.”

“Decades of dueling with Italian nonnas,” I say. “Pro tip—promise them grandchildren, and they’ll forget everything else you say.”

Next comes the CFO of an overseas subsidiary, eager to confirm rumors that we are reviving our dancewear line.

Tabitha nods gracefully, repeats the talking points we rehearsed—“kinesthetic design synergy,” thank you, Nico!

—and even improvises an anecdote about coaching models out of a duck-waddle posture.

I’m so impressed that I almost forget to breathe.

I should know better than to relax so soon.

Moretti gatherings always contain one booby-trap relative.

Tonight it’s Antonio. He’s our cousin, fifty-something, salt-and-pepper slick-back, ego proportionate to the size of his watch.

I spot him at the vintage aperitif cart, swirling Armagnac and looking for prey.

We can’t avoid him. It would be rude. He beckons with a curl of two fingers that says I own stock in you. I brace as we approach.

“Dantito,” he purrs, reverting to the childhood nickname that makes me want to test gravity without a parachute. His gaze drifts down Tabitha’s dress, not lasciviously, but assessing her like a luxury acquisition. “You bring a civilian to the family den. Bold.”

“Tabitha Calloway, Cousin Antonio,” I say, cool. “She’s choreographing our commercials and runway now.”

His grin is pure shark. “Ah, so you’re not family.” He sips. “Thought perhaps my little cousin finally secured a bride.”

Tabitha’s shoulders square, but she smiles politely. “I’m honored to meet more of Dante’s family.”

Antonio leans closer, voice just loud enough for nearby ears.

“Family, yes. We look after each other. Beware of those who look after themselves.” His gaze lingers on her emerald necklace—probably worth more than his cuff links.

“Many pretty faces chase Moretti money, signorina. Some of us cull gold-diggers for sport.”

Conversation around us stutters. Heads pivot. The insult lands with surgical precision. Tabitha blanches, hand trembling on my sleeve.

Something inside me snaps. Not the adrenaline buzz I get from cliffs, nor the practiced PR calm I use in interviews. This is lava—hot, protective, and irrepressible.

I step forward, blocking Antonio’s view. “Cousin,” I say, voice even, “if you feel entitled to vet my guests, do it privately. Preferably after returning from rehab.”

A few relatives gasp. A crystal ornament somewhere tinkles as though even the architecture is listening. Antonio’s smile dies. “I beg your pardon?”

I’m beyond pardon. “Tabitha’s presence is by invitation. Anyone undermining our guest list will find their holiday bonuses reevaluated.” I let the words hang—soft, deadly.

Antonio’s nostrils flare. He drains his glass, sets it down too hard, and stalks off toward the cigar lounge. The surrounding cousins pretend sudden fascination with the poinsettia arrangements.

Tabitha’s eyes shine—half shock, half something warmer. “You didn’t have to?—”

“I did.” The certainty surprises me more than the outburst. I cup her elbow, steer us to a quiet alcove behind a swath of curtain. “I’m sorry you heard that.”

She shakes her head. “I’m used to general harassment at the restaurant or the bookstore. Just…never from someone’s family.”

I rub the back of my neck, adrenaline ebbing. “Our relatives judge everyone. Usually, I can flip it into comedy. But there’s nothing funny about it when it comes to you.” My chest tightens. “I couldn’t swallow it.”

She studies me, eyes glistening. “Thank you.”

I shrug, trying for breezy, but the heart behind the shrug pounds. Assuming the worst of Tabitha? He’s lucky all I threatened was his bonus.

The quartet strikes a new tune downstairs—“Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” in languid strings. We stay hidden behind the curtain, the distant chatter a muffled hum. I notice her breathing has steadied.

“I meant what I said earlier,” I murmur. “You’re ours tonight.”

“And tomorrow?” She asks it lightly, but I hear the undercurrent.

I should deflect. Crack a joke about never planning that far ahead. But the cavern in my chest where fear lives demands honesty.

“Tomorrow will take care of itself,” I say, still trying for lighthearted.

She smiles. “That’s the best kind of plan.”

I want to kiss her. I almost do. But footsteps approach, and we step apart just as Aunt Caterina appears, cheeks flushed from eggnog, ready for another round of matchmaking interrogation. Or is it an intervention? I’m not sure.

Antonio never circles back. Word travels fast in our clan—no one else dares a disparaging syllable. Tabitha laughs freely through the rest of the night, and each laugh fixes another crack inside me I didn’t know was there.

The party bleeds into early-morning hours. After the last guest departs, we escape to the snow-dusted terrace. The chill bites my skin, but I don’t mind when champagne bubbles in my blood. Tabitha stands at the balustrade, moonlight pooling on her shoulders.

“I should probably let you drag race down the mountain to burn off your adrenaline from tonight,” she teases.

I step beside her, hands in pockets. “Tonight was enough.” I exhale white steam. “Confrontation scares me more than cliffs. But you…” I swallow, meeting her gaze. “You’re worth the fear.”

She slips her hand into mine. “Then we can be scared together.”

I squeeze once—promise, permission, plea. Snowflakes start to fall as the orchestra packs away instruments inside.

For the first time since I ran with bulls in Pamplona, my heart hammers not from danger but from possibility.

This might be the wildest ride yet.