Page 26 of Sold to the Silver Foxes (Forbidden Hearts #6)

SALVATORE

I start the day the way my cardiologist ordered. Ten minutes on a stationary bike, two minutes of square breathing, a scan of the markets before espresso. It feels almost— almost —mundane. Routine kills anxiety, or so goes the theory.

The elevator doors to the executive floor whisper open just after eight.

Between the scent of walnut-oil polish and our new bean-to-cup machine, I tell myself it will be a good day.

I have to approve the direction for the autumn line before we can start the designs, and I have to review vendor deals. Not a difficult day in my world.

Gianna, my assistant, intercepts me at reception with a breakfast smoothie and a schedule printed on ivory card stock.

The woman is a workhorse with old-school predictions, and I appreciate every one of them.

Her precision is its own therapy. I thank her, step into my office, and dictate notes for eleven solid minutes. No pulses skipped.

Then Gianna knocks—two quick taps that mean unplanned issue . She enters, mouth tight. “Signor Moretti…a walk-in visitor insists she must see you. She refuses to give her last name, but —” Gianna inhales. “She says you know her. Says it’s something about the views in Cordoba.”

A chill spears my spine. I want to be wrong, but my gut sinks into the floor anyway. “Where?”

“Executive reception.”

My first instinct is to call security and order an immediate removal. But I already feel the old pattern revving—if I avoid her, she’ll turn passive-aggressive, maybe leak something important. Ending it quickly, on my terms, is the surgical option. I nod. “Send her in.”

I steel myself for confrontation right before Alana Beckford crosses my threshold like a model starting a runway—each heel-click perfectly timed.

The blackest hair, a designer wrap, and a diamond necklace I bought her two birthdays ago.

Her eyes, violet contacts she never let me see her without, flick over my office artifacts.

The Monte Carlo rally photo, hand-carved chess set, the stress ball disguised as a leather paperweight she once gave me.

I don’t know why I kept it. I’d forgotten she gave it to me until just now.

“Salvatore.” Her tone is almost seductive, as if we’re resuming a coffee date instead of the last conversation she and I shared—me flat-backed with ECG leads hooked up all over my body while a detective asked polite questions about missing funds.

“State your business.” I remain standing behind my desk, all walnut bulk between us.

She pouts in appreciation of the formality. “I came to make amends.”

“Return the money?”

A tiny wave of her manicured hand. “Money isn’t real, you know that. Just ones and zeroes. Boring. I wanted to see you.”

“The last time you saw me, I ended up millions of dollars lighter. What makes you think I want to see you?”

Her smile pouts. “I’ve missed you.”

“You’ve missed my liquidity.”

“Don’t be like that, Sal,” she says softly as she saunters closer. “I know you’ve missed me too.”

“Ran out of money in Argentina, did you?”

“Why is it always about money with you? Can’t a girl miss her guy?” She sits in my guest chair, slowly crossing her legs to flash the top of her lacy thigh-highs.

“Subtlety was never your strong suit, Alana.”

She smiles playfully. “Who said anything about subtle? You know me. I see what I want, and I take it.”

“I’m no longer yours for the taking.”

She crosses her arms, lifting her tits. Not that they need it. The woman is tall and thin, but ample there. She’s only doing this because she knows they were my favorite asset of hers. It’s transparent, much like her white blouse.

Her voice goes too sweet, the way it does when she wants something. “I heard you’re seeing someone new. Someone young. Too young.”

“My dating life has nothing to do with you, Alana.”

“Salvatore, everyone sees through midlife-crisis flings.” Her voice honey-coats the insult, but it lands sharp. “It’s a little pathetic.”

The thought blooms instinctively—surprising, protective. “I’m involved,” I say, level, “and happy. Not a crisis.”

Alana tilts her head. “And a month or two from now, she’ll vanish with a golden parachute. Girls like that always do.”

Fury spikes—short, bright—but my voice stays cold. “Like you did?”

To her credit, she blanches. “That was…a way to fund my new business in Argentina. You’d be proud. We’re doing great numbers?—”

“Get out.”

She remains frozen, perhaps waiting for softening. “I don’t follow orders.”

“My security team does. Out. Now.”

“Fine.” Her eyes glass over with resentment. At the door, she delivers a parting shot. “When she leaves, you’ll come crawling back. You better hope I’m still available.” The latch clicks shut behind her.

The silence swells, then crashes against my ribs. My pulse races. I sit, breathing square-pattern—four in, hold, six out. No stab, but a dull ache unfurls. Not now.

I focus on the clock. Nine thirty-two, and my chest hurts. A new record.

Hours later, at home, the dining hall is a cheerful battlefield of silver and laughter. Some of our relatives have lingered. Snow delayed some flights, and others always linger at the holidays. They run Carla ragged, so I’ve kept some extra staff on hand to help her out.

Cousin Alessio debates barrel aesthetics with Uncle Marco. Dante auditions cocktail syrups on anyone with a glass. Nico quotes ROI figures disguised as jokes. Tabitha sits beside me, hair braided upward, cheeks slightly pink from her cocktail.

I manage small bites of porcini risotto, but each laugh pounds behind my sternum. Alana’s words echo— girls like that leave. I dismiss the echo, but my body doesn’t. A vise tightens the left-center chest.

Not good.

Dante notices my fork pause. “Sal, swear you’ve eaten something besides stress today?”

“A hefty sandwich at lunch. Left me with some agita,” I reply. The ache flashes. I place my napkin on the table. “Excuse me, all.”

Tabitha’s eyes track me with concern but she continues her conversation with Nico—adaptive-van logistics—good. She’s distracted. I navigate hallways I know by heart, climb the servant stairs slower than usual. By the time I reach my suite, my breath saws at my ribs.

I sit on the edge of the bed, unbutton shirt cuffs, and lay a palm flat on my sternum.

I’m back to a steady rhythm, but that damnable ache is insistent.

More emotional than physiological, I decide.

I lean forward, elbows on knees, breathe deliberately.

It’s been like this all day, and I’m exhausted.

A faint knock echoes through my room. “Sal? It’s me.” Tabitha’s voice.

Hell’s bells. “Come.”

She enters, closes the door softly. No heels—she must have slipped them off downstairs. She crosses to me, skirt whispering against her calves. “Chest pain?”

“Residual. It’ll pass.”

She sits, weight depressing the mattress, warm hand sliding over mine on my chest. “Was it random, or is something going on?”

I let my lids fall to half-mast. “Not random.”

“What happened?”

“The whole truth?”

“If you don’t mind.”

I try for a breath, and it comes surprisingly easy. “Alana Beckford was my girlfriend. We dated for a few years, in fact. And she used passwords that she stole from me to embezzle millions before anyone figured it out.”

“What?” Her pretty mouth drops.

“The stress of the situation coupled with the usual CEO stress…it was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

I had my heart attack, and was stuck in the Cardiac ICU when she left the country for Argentina with my millions…

” I recount Alana’s visit from today—not verbatim, but enough to paint the event.

Anger drains as I speak. Tabitha’s presence cushions each word like gauze. I don’t know how she does it.

When I finish, she exhales. “I don’t like speaking badly of other women, but that’s messed up. Showing up out of nowhere like that? Rude. And the rest? Pardon me, but that’s fucked up.”

“You can say that again.”

“Well, I can keep your secret. I won’t say a thing to your brothers.”

A corner of my mouth lifts. “They’d dismantle my office walls brick by brick to get the chance to yell at her face-to-face. And all they know is that we broke up. They don’t even know about the embezzlement.”

She nudges me gently. “Why protect them from that? They love you.”

“Because Dante’s ideas of revenge rival his ideas of a thrill ride, and Nico would bury her in bureaucratic headaches until she gave up and turned herself in.”

“You want her to get away with it?”

“No, I just… It’s hard to explain. Alana is diabolical in her own way, but she’s not nefarious about it. She’s not trying to cause harm—it’s just a side effect of her living how she wants to live.”

Tabitha flashes those eyes at me. “Do you hear yourself? Carelessness is just malice by another name.”

“I don’t want the law involved. My brothers would get the law involved. It’s as simple as that.”

Her sigh is heavy. “Okay. Why not tell them about the heart attack?”

That’s a different can of worms. “If I fall apart, Dante and Nico will too. I can’t let that happen.”

Tabitha’s eyes glisten. “I understand. When our parents died, I had to tell Erin. It felt like I was murdering her childhood innocence. I’d have spared her if I could.”

Her words slice something inside me—shared guilt, kinship. I clasp her hand. “Some truths destroy. Some protect. Alana is a destructive truth. Erin’s surgery is a protective one.”

She nods, tears hovering. “And our truth—how we met—destroys her and Grandma Judy, so I’ll keep it forever.”

“As will I.”

She wipes her cheek. “I’m sorry your ex brought this on.”

“I’m not.” The confession slips out. “Because when she walked in, my first thought was that I wish it had been you instead.”

Tabitha’s eyes widen. She cups my jaw. “So do I.”

She leans forward, pressing her lips softly to mine. The kiss is gentle, unhurried. The chest ache subsides, replaced by the warm pressure of her body against mine.

Déjà vu.

I couldn’t do it the other day. Couldn’t bring myself to do something one-on-one with Tabitha. It’s different than when it’s all three of us with her. That’s for fun.

But just me and her? That’s different.

I don’t know that my heart can handle different.

We shift higher on the bed, backs to the padded headboard. But instead of pushing this into something else, she curls into my side. I wrap an arm around her shoulders. For a stretch, we simply breathe, synced.

I’m not sure what she’s here for now, and my patience is wearing thin. My heart is racing, but in a good way this time. I wish she’d say some?—

“You deserve rest,” she whispers.

“So do you.”

She sighs. “I’m not so sure. I’m still holding on to a lie from my family.”

I stroke her braid. “Fear hooks hours; love unhooks them.”

She tilts her head to study me. “Did you just quote poetry?”

“Possibly Gibran. Possibly me on mild heart medication. Could be anything.”

She laughs—a warm ripple that eases the last knot in my chest. Her hand roams, finding my pulse point at the throat. “Steady.”

“Because of you.”

She nestles closer. “Because you shared your baggage.” She pauses. “I’ll help you carry it, if you want me to.”

I turn, press a kiss to her temple. Salty vanilla. The notion that she could, that I could want her to, no longer terrifies me. Strange, that.

Later, I wake briefly—moonlight like milk over the duvet. Tabitha sleeps, head on my shoulder, one leg tangled with mine. Her exhale brushes my collarbone. I listen to our breaths. Hers soft, mine steady.

Alana’s ghost tries a final whisper, but it fizzles. Something new grounds me. A truth that protects, not destroys.

Tabitha is that truth.

My phone buzzes once on the nightstand. My cardiologist’s daily reminder to log vitals. I silence it, smiling. Numbers tomorrow. Tonight, I follow the metronome of Tabitha’s gentle breathing back into sleep.