Page 30 of Sold to the Silver Foxes (Forbidden Hearts #6)

SALVATORE

Even the best cellists rest their bows eventually.

Last night was my bow-down evening. Contracts for the Seoul flagship finally cleared legal, and Sir John’s term sheet sits in my safe, embossed and marvelously un-snagged.

No one gave me a reason to pick up my bow.

The night went splendidly. No cause for drama, no need to verbally bring someone over my knee.

No threats needed. It was an elaborate, yet simple dinner.

Didn’t even get a twinge in my chest when Nico hinted something had happened. He’ll tell me if I need to know.

I reward myself with an indulgence I rarely admit.

Strolling the villa alone in the early hours, touching the heirlooms our father used to polish by hand.

I pause at the nineteenth-century bronze stallion in the foyer—its raised hoof ready to trample obstacles.

Somehow in the last few days, the obstacles have morphed from Pietro’s surprise inspection, to hackers sniffing for dressing-room gold, to Alana, who still occupies my blind spots more than I want to confess.

But she no longer occupies my heart. Progress.

I’m halfway through planning which artisan hot-chocolate kit to pack for the surgical waiting room when a voice cuts the silence. Two, actually. Both women. One low and razor-smooth, the other firm and lifting at the edges. I can’t make out what’s being said, but by the tone, none of it is good.

To the foyer.

On the way there, my pulse stumbles once, then hammers forward. Tabitha’s voice rings clear, and so does the other one. I’d know that knife-velvet timbre anywhere.

Alana.

She stands just inside the double doors, snow crystals still melting in her black hair. She wears a winter-white cashmere wrap I once commissioned from a Scottish mill. In front of her, barefoot in plaid pajama pants and a long cardigan, is Tabitha—hair sleep-tousled, cheeks pink with adrenaline.

They’re squared like fencers. Tabitha’s arms cross her chest, but her shoulders are relaxed, weight on the balls of her feet—ready for tangible defense if words fail. Alana’s posture is tragedy-queen. Head tilted, one gloved hand pressed to décolletage, eyes glassy. The very imitation of innocence.

Tabitha sees me first, relief flickering, but she holds her line. “I told her we’d call the police for trespassing if she doesn’t leave.”

Alana turns and lets out a little gasp as she wipes her crocodile tears. “Salvatore, thank God. This child?—”

I cut her off with a raised palm. “Leave.”

“What…what are you talking about?”

“You had your chance. You ruined it. You live with the consequences.” I step beside Tabitha, the marble tiles cold through my thin socks. “Get out.”

Her mascara is perfect. Tears do not melt it. She’d never own anything that could betray something as useless as human emotion. Not her style. “Sal, you’re making a mistake. I can explain everything.” She reaches for my sleeve, but I catch her wrist midair and peel it away.

“Do not try me, Alana. There’s no explanation for theft.” My voice is calm, legal-brief calm. “And even if I weren’t in love with Tabitha, I would never go back to you.”

The sentence hangs in Christmas-lit silence. Alana’s pupils dilate. Tabitha’s breath catches audibly.

The blood roars in my ears. What did I just admit to the two women who least should hear it simultaneously? I steady my footing. A tactic, I convince myself. Just meaningless words to dislodge the ex.

Alana works up one final tremor. “I love you?—”

“Tell someone who cares.” I open the door, letting in a gust of December knives. “So long, Alana.”

She hesitates and glares at Tabitha. “You’re a mistake. He’ll know that one day.”

“Even if I am, he still doesn’t want you. That must sting.”

Alana scowls, pivots, and clacks into the early morning. I close the door with a controlled slam that rattles the leaded-glass panes. Silence fills the still foyer. I turn to find Tabitha’s wide eyes mapping my face like searchlights.

“You’re in love with me?” she repeats, her voice a shadow of its former self.

Adrenaline has already drained, leaving tremor and dull chest pressure. I brush invisible lint off my sleeve, stalling. “Exaggeration,” I say. “Shock value. It was the only way to sever her persistence. My apologies for saying that without explaining first.”

Her mouth forms a knowing half smile. “So you lied.”

The vise around my sternum gets to work, a familiar ghost. “Only a little.” My body rebels as I speak, making my voice tighter than normal. Pain flares, sharp, just under healing scar tissue.

She steps forward instantly. “Sal, are you okay?”

“Minor pain. It’s nothing.” I back toward the grand staircase. Footing blurs, vision tunnels. Not now. But the muscle knot clamps harder, heat draining from my hands.

She grabs my forearm. “We’re going upstairs together. Now.”

I yield, letting her shepherd. What else can I do? Pride takes a back seat to higher survival math. Conscious Sal can protect. Unconscious Sal cannot. If Alana comes back, I don’t know what she’ll do, but it won’t be pretty, and now I’ve given her a new target. Tabitha.

I’m a bigger fool than I’d like to admit. What was I thinking?

I wasn’t. I was just saying what was on my mind, advisable or not. Honesty is the best defense, or so they say. Am I in love with Tabitha? Would that even matter, given our circumstances?

In my suite, she flicks on the amber lamplight, instructs me to sit on the edge of the bed. She kneels, unbuttons my dress shirt as quickly as a medic. “Scale of one to ten?”

“Five.” Liar. Seven. But I breathe through pursed lips, imagining alveoli as tiny hot-air balloons inflating against tight ropes.

She positions her fingers at my wrist, counts my pulse like she counts the beat of a song. Her hair falls like a copper curtain against my ribs as she leans close, and the scent of rosemary shampoo steadies me more than my breathing app ever did.

“Stay,” she commands, disappears into the ensuite, and returns with aspirin and water. I swallow dutifully. The pain gradually ebbs to a bruised ego. Not the big one.

When she’s satisfied the color has returned to my face, she sits beside me, drawing her feet up cross-legged. “How are you feeling?”

Silence stretches, pulling confession like taffy. I rub thumb against index in slow circle—the executive’s worry stone. “Like an old fool.”

She leans close. “You’re not either of those things.”

My pulse kicks. “I’m nearly twice your age, and you think I’m not old? What’s your concept of old?”

She giggles softly. “At least eighty.”

“Generous of you.”

“And you’re not a fool.”

“Remains to be seen, I suppose.” The room seems to expand, pressing my lungs outward. I can breathe again, thanks to her.

“So, about that lie…”

Funny. I could breathe only a moment ago. Now, the tightness returns. “Yes?”

“It was smooth. I almost believed you.”

“A lifetime of business lies makes others easier. Practice making perfect and all that.”

She drags her fingers through her long hair. “Is love something you’re looking for?”

“Love led to a coronary collapse once already. I can’t fail my brothers, and a good woman deserves more than a man whose heart is a ticking bomb.”

She reaches up, brushes strands of hair damp with stress from my forehead. “Love didn’t collapse your heart. Betrayal did. Different variables.”

“I’m still parsing the equation.” My laugh emerges brittle.

She smiles faintly. “Are you happier since the auction?”

“Yes.” No hesitation.

“Do you feel stronger? Better?”

“Daily.” Her logic corners me with elegant force.

She inches nearer until our knees touch. “Then data suggests that emotion, however fleeting it might be, is cardioprotective.”

I rasp a chuckle at that. “Get your degree in cardio-psychology, did you?”

“Working on it.” She giggles softly. “Currently, I’m performing a long-term observational study. It might take a while before I know anything definitive.”

“I’ve always been a patron of the sciences. I’m happy to fund this study.”

She grins at me, and the tension around my heart fades by half. I slide fully onto the bed, and she lies beside me, head resting on the inside of my arm, her ear over my heart.

“Promise me something,” she says into my chest.

I’d promise this woman anything she wants. “Name it.”

“Regular cardiologist visits.” The surprise makes me laugh, and she sits up. “I mean it.”

“You caught me off guard with that, but yes, I promise,” I answer, vow echoing deeper than my sternum.

She lays her head back down. “And I promise not to hide any chest pain from you.”

“You’d better not,” I mutter, attempting a stern facade. She kisses the hollow of my throat, shattering me. I weave fingers into her hair. “When we take Erin to surgery, I’ll ask the hospital’s cardiac unit to schedule me for imaging.”

Her forehead wrinkles. “Sal?—”

“Just to schedule them. I’m staying by your side for the surgery.”

She bites her lip, then nods. “Okay.”

We lie silently. My pain is gone. In its place, warmth flows—viscous, unstoppable.

“Can we sleep?” she whispers, eyelids heavy.

“Yes.”

But sleep eludes me for an hour. I watch snow swirl through half-drawn curtains, analyzing emotions impossible to pin down. Eventually, my heart now calm, I drift off to her steady breathing, her weight an anchor pulling me into the safest depths.

Sleeping next to Tabitha is the most restorative sleep I’ve ever had. When I wake, my chest feels fine. I flex experimentally—no twinge. Data supports last night’s thesis.

I kiss her forehead, and she stirs. “Mm, what?”

“Just getting up for a shower. Feel free to keep sleeping.”

After a quick shower, I find her gone. A note on her pillow tells me, “Too hungry to stay. Sorry. XO, T.” Can’t blame her there. I’m starving.

Downstairs, I find Dante standing barefoot in flannel pants, flipping cinnamon-sugar brioche slices on the griddle. Tabitha perches on a stool, instructing him on technique, her hair in a messy bun. She sees me, her smile brightened by her inner warmth.

“Looking snazzy, Sal,” Dante jokes.

I slap his shoulder lightly. “Focus or you’ll burn breakfast.”

“We’re covered.” He grins. “Chef Tabitha ensures quality.”

Tabitha passes me a mug bearing a heart on it. I chuckle—her sense of humor or coincidence? She winks. Definitely a nudging joke. I kiss the tip of her nose, then swat her ass. “Brat.”

She beams at that.

Nico enters in a tailored travel blazer, eyes scanning, satisfied. “French toast? What would your trainer say, Dante?”

“That she’s jealous. Want some?”

“Yes, please.”

It’s oddly domestic, the four of us teasing over French toast and coffee. Lazy brunches are the best brunches. It’s hard to believe the day started with fireworks, and now we’re here like nothing ever happened. Tabitha smooths things over by her very presence.

I need that in my life. I’m not sure how to explain that to my brothers. But I hope they understand that I’m not willing to end things just because the contract ends.