Page 4 of Sold to the Silver Foxes (Forbidden Hearts #6)

SALVATORE

The neighborhood fades away, and trees line the sides of the road.

Not much further now. Dante sprawls in the passenger seat, fiddling with the radio until I finally silence it.

Nico sits in the back, staring out the window like he’s indifferent to our destination—but I know him better than that.

He straightens his tie for the thirty-fourth time.

I’d think by now my brothers would’ve learned how to maintain a proper poker face, but no.

They’re both transparent as ever. Dante’s excitement radiates from every pore.

That’s why he keeps fiddling with the radio.

Nico’s barely contained intrigue is evident in the way he keeps adjusting his tie.

They don’t fool me. I’ve been reading them since they were in diapers.

We pull up to a gated driveway lined with tall hedges.

A guard in a black uniform waves me forward after scanning the invitation on Dante’s phone.

My headlights illuminate a smooth path that curves around a massive old mansion.

Stone pillars frame the entrance, and soft golden lighting glows in the windows.

The mansion looks more like a hotel. A nice one.

The Armory.

Dante practically bounces in his seat when I slow to a stop. “We’re here, gentlemen.”

Nico exhales, muttering something about we shouldn’t be doing this, but I ignore him. It’s a little too late for that. We’re already at the front steps.

As I kill the engine, I tilt the rearview mirror to examine my own reflection.

Short, silver hair combed back, matching my neatly trimmed beard.

My tux fits perfectly—one of ours, of course—and my black half-mask is resting on the dash.

The invitation specified masks for anonymity, plus formal attire. Better we’re all on the same footing.

I slip the mask over my face, and in that small gesture, a weight lifts from my shoulders. Crazy how a simple piece of molded leather can let you pretend, if only for a night, that you’re not the CEO of a global fashion empire with a thousand responsibilities.

Dante hops out first, already masked. Nico follows, tugging his jacket sleeves into place. I climb out last, scanning the building’s ornate exterior. We’re stepping into something unknown, probably decadent, maybe a little insane. But that’s par for the course when my youngest brother is involved.

The second reason I’m here is a bit more personal—my cardiologist has been on my ass to reduce stress. Have some fun , he says, as if it’s that simple.

Six months ago, I had a heart attack—came on the heels of an ugly breakup that shattered me more than I’m willing to admit. Alana Beckford . Even the name stings. She’s twenty years younger, vibrant and enchanting…and apparently a hacker who siphoned more money from me than I’d like to acknowledge.

The heartbreak feels worse than the financial loss, though.

I should’ve seen it coming, but I was blinded by the promise of companionship, maybe even love.

The rest of my family doesn’t know all the details—I told them we split, but I spared them my humiliation.

And none of them know about the heart attack.

Since then, I’ve sworn off younger women.

Or maybe just women in general. Too risky, too stressful.

I’m only here because Dante insisted we all need this , and he’s not entirely wrong.

As the oldest, I’m responsible for keeping our family together, ensuring my brothers don’t drift off into their own worlds.

If that means tagging along to a bizarre auction, so be it.

But I have zero intention of actually buying someone’s virginity.

I’d rather get my frustrations out at Black Fox, where I don’t have to worry about my play partners.

No noobs at Black Fox, and certainly no virgins.

I valet the SUV, and we proceed down a short path lined with manicured hedges. It takes a moment to realize they’re trimmed into the shapes of body parts. Tits, ass, and cocks, but almost classy. I snort a laugh at the thought.

Torches flicker, casting dancing shadows along the old stone walls.

Massive front doors tower ahead, carved with intricate designs that hint at the mansion’s historic past. A pair of tall men in black suits guard the entrance.

They double-check our invitations, nodding politely, then gesture us inside.

The foyer is vast, marble underfoot, and the ceilings soar at least two stories.

A grand staircase sweeps up to a balcony where masked guests lean on the railing, sipping champagne while surveying the room below.

Chandeliers of wrought iron and crystal dangle overhead, casting a warm glow.

Men in tuxedos and women in gowns—or in some cases, barely more than lingerie—chat in hushed tones.

Anyone unmasked must be staff, given how they calmly move through the crowd, offering drinks or guiding guests further inside.

“Wow, they went all out,” Dante says, glancing up at the ornate ceiling painted with Renaissance-style murals.

Nico shuffles beside him, adjusting his collar. “Let’s not make a scene.”

But even he can’t hide the flicker of interest in his eyes as a stunning brunette passes by, wearing a black satin corset and thigh-high stockings, her face concealed by a matching half-mask. She looks at us for a beat, curiosity evident, then continues on her way.

According to a hostess, the main auction will happen in the grand ballroom. Bidding is discreet—guests who wish to participate will be given digital paddles linked to a secure system. Beyond that, there’s an open bar, lounges, private rooms, and who knows what else.

Nico stares at the tablet, frown deepening. “Online auctions in real time, bidding from your phone or from these little paddles… If the press knew about this?—”

“Shut it,” Dante chides. “We’re here to have fun, not dissect their operation.”

If I don’t cut them from their scripts, they’ll ruin the night for each other. “Let’s explore a bit before the main event.”

We move deeper into the mansion, down a corridor hung with paintings of what must be former owners—a series of austere faces and old-fashioned attire. The halls bustle with people in every state of dress. The deeper we go into the mansion, the louder the hum of lively chatter.

Dante is clearly in his element, already sipping champagne he snagged from a passing tray. “Check out the architecture,” he says, gesturing upward. “Makes me want to host an event here or something.”

Nico grunts, “An orgy-themed runway show, perhaps?”

“That’d certainly get us some free press, don’t you think?”

I ignore their sniping to observe the surroundings.

We reach a wide parlor that opens into a sprawling room filled with velvet chaise lounges and a giant fireplace.

Music drifts from hidden speakers, a sultry beat that sets the mood for whispered conversations.

Couples and groups lounge in various corners, masks glinting in the flickering firelight.

A staff member in black thigh-high boots offers us cocktails.

I opt for water, while they take champagne.

I didn’t think about alcohol when I took my heart meds today.

“As usual, you’re the picture of moderation,” Dante jokes, sipping from his flute. “I guess that means you’ll be our designated driver on the way back?”

“I’m driving,” I confirm simply. I step aside to let a group pass, noticing a curvy blonde in black lace giving Dante a once-over.

She says something hushed to him in passing.

He just laughs, but I catch the slight shift in his posture—he’s already comfortable here, like a fish in water.

Nico stands rigid, arms folded, as though expecting trouble around every corner.

We tour one velvet-and-gold room after another. Several masked attendees mill about, chatting or admiring the architecture. Overhead, a chandelier sparkles, sending fractured light across the floor.

Nico exhales quietly. “I hate to admit it, but this place is…impressive.”

Dante grins like a kid in a candy store, then checks his watch. “We’ve got about half an hour to kill before the show starts. Care to do a bit more exploring?”

I shoot him a wry look. “I think I’ll stay here, see if I can find us decent seats. You two do whatever.”

“Suit yourself,” he replies, shrugging. “I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry, I won’t let Nico wander off too far.”

Nico gives me an exasperated look, but he doesn’t protest when Dante tugs him toward a doorway leading to another lounge. They vanish into the crowd, leaving me near the stage’s edge.

I find our seats toward the middle of the front row, where three plush chairs are reserved—most likely a perk of Dante’s “VIP” payment.

Figures. This vantage point will give us a clear view of whatever spectacle they’re about to present.

My gaze drifts to the stage curtains, imagining how this “virginity auction” might unfold.

Virgins parading onstage, perhaps, while masked bidders raise digital paddles. It’s decadent, maybe a bit disturbing, but I won’t pretend I’m repulsed. I’ve been around the block enough to know everyone has their reasons for being here.

My main reasons are my brothers. The three of us used to be inseparable, but responsibility, business, and personal failures have driven wedges between us. If this night brings us closer, it’ll be worthwhile.

Leaning back in the chair, I glance around at the growing crowd.

The variety of masks is fascinating—some simple half-masks like ours, others elaborate with feathers or glitter.

A few men wear plain black hoods that cover everything but their eyes, which is more than a little sinister.

The women’s attire ranges from floor-length gowns to next to nothing, all in black or red or shimmering metallics.

Soft laughter and murmured conversations bounce off the high walls, creating an air of anticipation.

My eyes drift toward the stage again, drawn to the mystery behind that heavy velvet curtain. I can’t help wondering what the virgins are like. Are they nervous? Empowered? Desperate? People do what they must. The older I get, the less black-and-white I see in the world.

I sense movement behind me, and I turn to see Dante and Nico returning, each carrying a drink. Nico’s expression is guarded—he’s never one to openly admit he’s enjoying himself. Dante, on the other hand, looks positively thrilled.

“There’s a labyrinth of rooms in this place,” Dante says, dropping into the seat beside me. “One lounge leads to another, leads to another…it’s like they keep adding levels of debauchery the deeper you go.”

Nico lowers himself into the chair on my other side. “I’d hardly call it a labyrinth. We just walked through a couple of lounges. But it’s definitely bigger than Black Fox, and far more…ostentatious.”

Dante takes a sip of something amber. “The bartender told me the main auction portion is about to start soon. Some of the virgins are backstage. He hinted they’re all so gorgeous they’ll leave us speechless.”

I incline my head. “Lovely. You two can drool all you want. I’m just here to watch.”

Nico snorts softly. “Same. I’m not about to drop money on a month with a virgin. Ridiculous.”

Dante shrugs, raising a brow. “Don’t knock it until you see it. Who knows what could happen if the vibe is right?”

The lights dim just then, prompting a hush to settle over the crowd. The heavy red stage curtains rustle, and a spotlight illuminates the center. A tall, masked figure steps out, holding a microphone.

“Good evening,” he says, his voice echoing in the grand ballroom. “We require that you keep to our club’s rules. No photography, no recording devices, and absolute respect for the participants. Now, without further ado…”

The announcer’s speech fades into the background as my pulse quickens.

For the first time tonight, a thrill creeps up my spine.

Maybe this is what I need. The excitement in the room is tangible—whispers, soft laughter, shifting seats.

Glancing at Dante and Nico, I notice they’re both transfixed, eyes trained on the stage.

The lights shift again, focusing on the curtains. I exhale slowly, letting the world slip away for a moment. No spreadsheets, no board meetings, no residual pain from my shattered relationship. Just the hum of anticipation and the swirling candlelit shadows on gilded walls.

Show me what you’ve got, Armory .