Page 38 of Sold to the Silver Foxes (Forbidden Hearts #6)

SALVATORE

I have a recurring nightmare in which the contract—the actual parchment with its blood-red ribbon—hops off my desk and paces the villa like a vindictive rabbit.

At each tick of the grandfather clock, it grows, sprouting claws made of lawyerly Latin, until it’s tall enough to scrape the chandeliers.

Then it opens its single, ink-black eye and announces, “Liquidated damages, Signor Moretti.”

I jolt awake at that exact line for the third night in a row. It’s ridiculous. A child’s nightmare in a grown man? I know how stupid it is. But that doesn’t stop me from waking in a cold sweat.

This time, dawn is only a faint violet stain on the snow, and the scar beneath my sternum hums like a lit fuse. Today, the contract is not just a nightmare come to life.

Today is day thirty.

Downstairs, the villa is hushed. Nico’s study light glows—somewhere behind that door, he’s triple-checking contingency cash positions in case of issue.

Dante is not in his room, which means he’s outside flinging himself down an ice luge to outrun his nerves.

All coping strategies on deck, all valid.

Mine involves staring at Pietro’s number on my phone, thumb hovering over the call button, just to prove I’m not afraid.

But I am.

When Tabitha enters the kitchen, she’s barefoot, wearing my nightshirt. She instinctively reaches for the second cup I’ve poured—regular, not decaf. We’ve dispensed with lies now. The crease between her brows reminds me of Erin’s incision line—fresh, tender, promising healing but not yet sealed.

“How’s the brace?” I ask.

“Erin says it itches.” She forces a smile, blows on her coffee. “That’s better than numbness. Means it’s healing, the nurses say.”

We do a little choreography of small comforts.

She passes me the sugar I don’t use. I pretend to taste test the croissant Dante baked at two a.m. He thinks we don’t know he bakes for stress relief, but we do.

Carla was never much of a baker, so it’s not her work, and Nico’s kitchen proficiency ends at not burning water.

All distractions from the thing on our minds. The contract sits between us like a shark below the surface—ignored, always circling.

Carla arrives. She never knocks loudly, but today her rap sounds like a judge’s gavel. “Signor Moretti,” she says, hands clasped, pulse visible in her throat. “There is a gentleman at the north gate. Signor Pietro Dumas.”

Coffee turns to acid in my mouth. For one insane second, I consider telling Carla to feign a boiler failure, plague protocols, anything. But refusing him is a breach by obstruction. Worse. A bored Dumas invents infractions.

Tabitha puts her cup down with a clink. Color drains from her cheeks. She whispers, “I’ll change.”

“You don’t have to?—”

But she’s already sprinting upstairs, braid flying behind herself.

Dante bursts through the mudroom door, snow in his hair. “Carla said—he’s here?” One look at my face answers. He drags a sleeve across his forehead, snow melting into frantic sweat. “We can stall. Tell him Tabitha’s at PT with Erin.”

“And violate the truth clause?” Nico appears behind him, tie half-knotted but voice cool. “We let him in. We stay calm. We’ve got this.”

Rage flares, but I lock it down. Nico is right. We have to remain calm. Today is about not losing Tabitha—or the company that bears our grandfather’s name.

I nod to Carla. “Open the gate.”

The convoy glides up the circular drive.

Three SUVs, tinted so dark they could be fish tanks full of ink.

Pietro disembarks like a conductor called to his podium.

Same flawless midnight-blue suit from the auction, same white scarf, but colder eyes—this is endgame Dumas, perusing his possible kingdom as he looks at my childhood home.

Motherfucker.

His watchdogs scour the foyer, performing RF detector sweeps around chandeliers. A canine’s nose sniffs the area in search of a threat. Everything is theater, but theater with knives.

“Really, Dumas?” I can’t help myself. “You brought hounds?”

“One can never be too careful. Beautiful house,” Pietro says, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. “Enjoy it while you can.”

“State your business,” Nico answers, playing shield before I pop a blood vessel.

“The exit audit, of course,” Pietro replies. “Your prize and I will speak alone.”

Tabitha appears at the top of the staircase in a soft blue dress.

My chest hurts at the thought of her alone with this man.

He showed up at Erin’s checkup, and for that, I commend him, but I don’t pretend it was anything other than theater for Tabitha’s benefit.

I’ll never say that to her, though. It meant a lot to her for him to show up like that, and I’d rather she still believe people, even people like Pietro Dumas, can have some good in them.

Dante starts to speak, but I raise a hand. “This is the final term of the contract. It’s okay.”

I’m lying. Nothing about this is okay.

We lead them to Father’s study—thick oak panels, a single door that locks from the inside. Pietro’s men sweep again, and I catch Tabitha’s gaze. I hope she understands the look in my eyes. I love you. Say nothing you don’t want.

She nods. The door shuts. A bolt slides.

We stand outside—a line of Morettis and eight Dumas guards. Time dilates, becomes syrupy. My chest squeezes with phantom pain. I inhale shallow, long exhale, the drill my cardiologist taught. It does nothing.

Minute three: Dante paces, muttering something about ski physics.

Nico scrolls something on his phone—probability modeling, no doubt.

His new obsession is thanks to a program in its alpha phase that allegedly works better than all the others.

I watch the doorknob, half expecting it to redden with heat.

Minute seven: My pulse holds at eighty-three. Guard on the right taps earpiece, whispers status, nods, resumes statue stance.

Minute eleven: The door slams open. Pietro storms out, scarf disheveled, one cuff link missing. His jaw ticks in contempt. Behind him, Tabitha sits on the sofa, face buried in hands, tears leaking between fingers. The floor drops inside my chest.

I step forward. A guard blocks me with a forearm.

“What did you do to her?” I demand.

“What you failed to do,” Pietro says, shrugging the cuff back into place. “Tell the truth.”

I look to Tabitha. She doesn’t raise her head, and her shoulders quake.

I bark, “I will end you, Dumas! Whatever you did?—”

“I could say the same of you.”

I blink. “What?”

Pietro continues, voice silk over rust as he shuts the door between me and Tabitha. “You promised no emotional harm. Instead, you built castles of clouds. Careers, foundations, forever-family fairy tales.” He tuts. “The emotional harm clause has been triggered.”

“Emotional harm requires intent,” Nico says, voice frost-edge.

Pietro’s laugh is soft. “Negligence suffices. She believed in a future you will not make real.”

“Bullshit! We have never lied to her. Not since day one! You have no right, Dumas!”

He waves away my words like they’re nothing. “Your begging bores me, Moretti.”

I lunge—not at Pietro, but toward the door between me and Tabitha. A guard shoves me, and I skid back, heart punching ribs. Pietro snaps his fingers, and the guard locks the study door with Tabitha inside.

Dante explodes. “Unlock that door before I?—”

Pietro silences him with a glance at his second guard, who unsnaps his gun holster. Dante freezes, fury coiling.

“Now,” Pietro says, “we settle accounts.” He steps to the foyer’s central rug. “Our contract stipulates the full transfer of controlling equity upon breach. I’ll file papers by noon. But I am generous.”

Nico’s shoulders square as his fists ball. “Define generous.”

“My uncle finds retail dull. He will slice your house into rental suites, or some such. I, however, prefer legacy. If you relinquish the girl, I can be persuaded to leave the company to your heirs.”

It takes a breath to register. He’s offering a trade. Family empire or Tabitha. The oldest extortion game—ransom.

I picture the factory floors in Lombardy where our artisans still stitch our crest into leather.

Lions, full mane, roaring, a traditional crest, navy blue in the background.

The same crest on the rug Pietro stands on.

The scholarship fund in Milan named after our mother.

I picture Father himself, laying out his will.

The company passes to the brothers or to none; unity is the brand.

Then I picture Tabitha standing under stage lights, turning a jacket sleeve to show hidden vents, or defending Erin’s therapy schedule with soft-spoken ferocity, or telling me I’m more than my heart attack, more than an unoriginal overworked CEO. That I’m worth something to her.

Pietro’s eyes gleam, waiting. “Well, Salvatore?” he coaxes. “Legacy or love? Your family business, or the girl?”

I laugh once. “Tabitha. Obviously.”