Page 31 of Sold to the Silver Foxes (Forbidden Hearts #6)

TABITHA

The electric sconces lining the upper gallery seem to breathe more quietly, as if respecting the gravity of today. In three hours, a neurosurgical team will wheel Erin—my baby sister, my favorite person—into an operating theater bathed in light and life-or-death stakes.

My backpack is zipped and waiting by the portico doors.

Two pairs of leggings, an oversized hoodie that Erin claimed a long time ago, a stuffed snow fox from Dante—this one in rainbow colors—chargers, salty snacks, a leather notebook full of stats I’ll pretend to reread while pacing.

On the credenza sits a brown paper bag Sal labeled “Approved by Hospital Nutrition.” Inside is an artisan PB&J cut into triangles, apple slices sealed under vacuum wrap, one square of ninety percent chocolate, and two aspirin.

Sal’s love language, apparently, is contingency planning.

Not that I’m surprised.

I stir the embers of the foyer hearth and replay yesterday’s whirlwind.

The phone calls from Dr. Shah confirming OR availability.

Nico’s assistant chartered a limo to take us, so we wouldn’t have to think about driving.

Dante sprinting through corridors, waving a crocheted purple blanket because Erin “deserves royal colors.” And Sal, leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, letting them whirl—his approving gaze the gravitational center, steady enough to keep me from spinning apart.

I shouldn’t feel calm, yet I do. There’s fear, of course.

The surgery could go sideways in dozens of ways.

But the things we can control are controlled.

The brothers are becoming a living exoskeleton around the softest parts of my life.

They said they’d carry me through this, and somehow my hyper-independent brain believes them.

I move to the tall windows. Beyond the glass, snowflakes swirl in slow-motion choreography under floodlights—the same lights Nico insisted the grounds crew install so “nerves can pace at two a.m. without ice hazards.” For three hard men, they’ve done everything in their power to give me a soft landing.

I press a hand to the pane, palm cooling. Somewhere out there, the horizon is beginning to glow lavender. Sunrise is almost here, and with it, the surgical countdown begins.

Soft footfalls. Nico, already in a charcoal wool suit and open-collar shirt, carries two bone-white demitasses. No tie—small miracle. His gray hair is damp. He smells of bergamot shampoo.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, handing me a cup.

I wrap both hands around it. “Could. Didn’t dare.”

He clinks china rims with mine in a silent toast to insomnia. The espresso is perfect—slightly bitter, much like him.

“The limo will be here soon,” he says. “Dante’s searching for his lucky avalanche beanie.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Avalanche beanie?”

Nico’s mouth quirks. “In Dante-speak, a knit hat prevents emotional avalanches.”

The image dislodges a laugh, first of the morning. Laughter tastes like relief, unexpected and necessary. But also foreign. Inappropriate.

Nico’s expression softens the way it did the night in the conservatory after the Henri incident. “You’ve got this,” he says. “And if you don’t, we’ve got you.”

I nod—can’t risk my voice cracking—and sip espresso. The caffeine hits like a pep rally in my veins.

Brunhilde, as Dante calls the armored black SUV, devours the snow-dusted road as though offended by friction.

The professional driver is sober-faced and cunning through traffic, with his hands at ten and two, eyes steely on the road.

Sal rides shotgun. He insisted on navigating, but I suspect it’s also to keep a protective eye on the speedometer.

Nico and I occupy the second row, and Dante is in the back seat, eyes on his phone.

When I steal a look at the screen, he’s studying the outcomes of astroglioma surgeries.

Hospital buildings materialize out of semidarkness—monolithic, haloed in sodium lamps.

We fly through security and valet like a presidential motorcade.

Inside the glass atrium, Christmas garlands twist around pillars.

Someone left the lobby playlist on light jazz.

Erin’s room is too far for her to hear it, but I hope she’s listening to something. My sister loves music.

When we get there, I introduce Nico and Dante, and even though the dynamics are confusing for Erin and Grandma Judy, they roll with it. I think they’re too nervous to ask too many questions. We’re there not five minutes before nurses in festive scrubs join us.

“Are you ready, hon?”

That’s the question, isn’t it? I swallow hard, staring at my sister. Pale, wan. Thin. So thin. But she manages a smile for them. “I’m ready for all of this to be over, so yeah. I’m ready.”

We follow as they wheel her to pre-op, but they only allow me and Grandma Judy back there. Sal promises, “We’ll be right here when you return.”

I give them a nod and follow along with Grandma Judy.

In pre-op, Erin grins from her bed as the anesthesiologist cracks a joke about purple blankets being good luck.

The surgeon appears—Dr. Shah in black scrubs, eyes kind above an N95.

He addresses Erin, not me, explaining the plan in patient-friendly terms.

Grandma Judy says, “Out of all of us, she’ll understand the real terminology better than me or Tabi, doc. You can give it to her straight.”

He chuckles at that and lets her have it straight. Erin nods along and asks questions I never thought of. Dr. Shah happily answers them all, never rushing her.

At the end, Erin nods bravely, squeezes my hand, and says, “Tabi, remember you promised to stretcher-surf with me afterward.” Her voice is light, but her eyes brim at the edges.

I bend, kiss her forehead. “Hell, I’ll take you real surfing after. Whatever you want, kiddo.”

They wheel her away. I stand rooted, heart jogging nowhere. When she disappears through the swinging doors, Grandma Judy’s palm settles between my shoulder blades.

“Time to brief mission control,” she murmurs, trying to lighten the air. It mostly works.

The surgical family waiting room smells like disinfectant, old coffee, and the stale fragrance of collective bargaining with fate.

Eight other families camp at spaced-out clusters of chairs.

Sal stakes claim to a corner alcove, arranges bottled waters, packs of dried fruit, unsalted crackers, hand sanitizer—his version of trench fortification.

Nico opens his laptop once, sees me watching, shuts it, and slips it into his briefcase. “How’d she seem going in?”

“Good. For now.” But I’m shaking.

Dante motions for me to sit with him and fiddles with a deck of cards from the gift shop. “Here, let me show you a trick. See if you can figure it out. He starts a fancy shuffle, then deliberately drops cards, making me laugh. Then he resets, repeats. “Let me try one more time…”

The hours drip by. We track them on the wall clock, on phones, and by coffee refills. Sal whispers he has a cardiology CT slot. I’m relieved to hear it. At least that’s one thing going right today.

Near lunchtime, Dante shows up with grilled-chicken wraps for everyone. I pick at mine. My appetite is null. Nico slides the honey-mustard packet under my nose. “Tangy equals appetite.”

He’s right. I manage half of it.

Eventually, the OR status board flickers with her patient number under Closing. My knees threaten betrayal, but Sal’s arm hooks around my waist.

“Closing means they’re almost done, right?”

He nods once. “That’s a good sign.”

I gulp and try to breathe. Neither are easy.

Minutes later, Dr. Shah appears. Mask off, smile soft. “The tumor was fully removed, with minimal blood loss, and her spinal cord signal is stable, along with her brainstem. I expect her to make a full recovery.”

I collapse in my guys’ arms. I’m crying—ugly crying, unstoppable. Tears soak my cardigan. I don’t care. All I heard was full recovery . Nothing else matters.

Only when my sobs recede into hiccups do I realize the entire room is politely pretending not to stare at the four of us and Grandma Judy.

Dr. Shah drily says, “A group hug is an effective analgesic.” Dante laughs, wiping his own eyes.

Eventually, Erin is groggy but lucid in the ICU.

She wiggles toes on command—a victory. She looks worryingly tiny in the high-tech bed, wires sprouting like wild vines from every direction.

I stroke her hand. She mutters about ice cream.

Dante promises gelato flown in from Naples the moment nutrition clears.

Nico checks the IV pump like a quality-control inspector.

Sal stands sentinel at the door, arms crossed, but his soft eyes linger on my face whenever I lean down to Erin.

Eventually, visiting hours lapse. Grandma Judy insists on staying overnight, and nurses arrange a cot. I kiss them both goodnight (good afternoon?), and we head back to the villa, exhaustion a communal cloud.

In the SUV, I stare out frost-etched glass, heart steady, then skittering, then steady again. I keep replaying the day, wondering where I could have done better. But when I glance around Brunhilde, those worries subside. The relief, the gratitude, the love—too much to contain.

I realize something with a clarity that feels cellular.

I’m in love with these three men. Not transactionally. Completely.

And if I don’t tell them, my chest will crack wide open.

Back at Villa Moretti, candlelight flickers up vaulted beams. The brothers coax me toward my bedroom, but my words bubble up before I can stop them. “Stay,” I command, planting feet near the hearth.

They freeze, three statues in tailored coats.

“I need to tell you something,” I say, pulse drumming inside my throat. “All of you.”

Dante’s grin morphs into something concerned. Sal tilts his head. Nico slips his hands into his pockets.

I inhale. “When I agreed to the auction, I told myself I could keep emotions separate. That I’d take care of Erin, then walk away.

” My voice quavers. I steady it. “I was wrong. Somewhere between roller coasters and MRI scans, I fell in love with all three of you. I’m not expecting anything, but I needed to say it. ”

Dante crosses the room first, hands sliding to my waist. “I’ve been in love with you since you teased me for my helicopter story.” His smile wobbles. “This is the scariest free fall ever.”

Nico steps forward, removing his glasses. “What makes you think you shouldn’t have expectations of us? Have we ever given you a reason to think we are anything less than in love with you too?”

A shocked laugh pops out along with a tear. “Really?”

Sal moves last, resting a hand at the nape of my neck. “I confessed to Alana by accident. But it wasn’t a lie.” His deep voice softens. “I love you too.”

No one speaks for a long minute—words are trivial compared to pulses thudding against pulses, breaths synchronizing. The calm before the storm.

And then it all happens at once. In turn, Dante kisses my forehead, Nico my eyelids, and Sal the soft spot behind my ear.

Layers peel away—coats, cardigans, layers underneath.

My body becomes a map that their mouths and hands trace.

Dante’s playful nips along my collarbone.

Nico’s precise, reverent palms cupping my hips.

Sal’s slow, grounding strokes down my spine.

I float, weightless but anchored by them.

We migrate to my bed. Dante lies back, guiding me to straddle him.

Sal kneels behind, kissing the arch of my shoulder as Nico reaches out, his fingertips teasing lower until pleasure blooms hot at every nerve junction.

Movements sync wordlessly—like choreography we’ve practiced all our lives instead of just a few weeks.

I take Dante into me first, and Sal follows from behind, gradually working his way up my ass.

Nico supports my weight, kissing my flushed cheeks, my lips.

Sal’s hand slides over my clit, rubbing in lazy circles that coil tension.

The heat builds in my cells, excruciating pleasure that steals my breath.

I’m so impossibly full right now, and then Nico claims my mouth with his cock.

I erupt, and the climax staggers me, lightning crackling outward.

Dante shudders beneath me, Nico groans, and Sal bites my shoulder, release following release like fireworks chain-igniting.

We collapse in tangled heat. Outside, wind moans around the eaves, and inside, only ragged breathing and the faint tick of the mantel clock are to be heard.

We rearrange ourselves, Sal spooning me, Nico facing me, and Dante draped across my calves like a giant puppy. Flames cast their faces in alternating gold and shadow. Three profiles I’ve memorized, each extraordinary, each carrying pieces of me.

“I thought screwups didn’t get happy endings,” Dante murmurs.

Nico chuffs a laugh. “Quarter’s not closed yet.”

Sal kisses the curve of my ear. “We’ll write the ending ourselves.”

I close my eyes, listening to the cadence of three different heart rhythms converging into one lullaby.

Erin’s future just widened into a horizon.

Grandma Judy’s house is as good as safe, now that the bills are covered.

And my own future stretches beyond snow and surgery into spring couture shows, movement direction rehearsals, perhaps a pied-à-terre in Paris where these men will barge in with croissants and conflicting agendas.

If I take the job with them, we’ll be inextricably linked, no matter what Pietro says or does.

I want that.

I want it all.