Page 40 of Sold to the Silver Foxes (Forbidden Hearts #6)

DANTE

“Down a hair on your side,” I say to two burly movers—ex-rugby players in Moretti-branded work polos. They lower the frame, and the hydraulic legs hiss. The mattress settles with a sigh louder than my own. One mover gives me a job-done thumbs-up. I nod, but my brain’s already on the next task.

Portable ramp? Check.

Over-bed trapeze bar? Check.

Hoyer lift with sling for the first few weeks? Check.

Mini-fridge stocked with pediatric electrolyte drinks and healthy snacks? Nico hammered that detail into an email this morning. Check.

Therapy-grade balance board? Hidden under the armoire so Erin doesn’t try tricks too soon? Check and check.

Snow-white winter light pours through the windows, igniting dust motes that look like tiny satellites.

A drill whirs nearby—Sal supervising the grab-bar install in the en-suite bathroom’s shower—and the aroma of Carla’s gingerbread granola wafts up the stairs.

It’s one of the few things she can bake, and it’s delicious.

Domesticity, the kind I never thought I’d want.

No time for self-reflection, though. We have twenty-eight minutes before Erin’s wheelchair rolls over the threshold.

And Tabitha doesn’t know yet.

That thought lights a new fuse of adrenaline in my sternum.

I wipe sweat with a sleeve, then check the hospital bed’s remote.

Head and knees articulate fine, and the zero-gravity preset works.

If all my extreme-sports buddies could see me obsessing over incline angles, they’d revoke my membership to the Reckless Club.

But none of them have watched a fifteen-year-old girl take her first wobbly post-op steps and declare she’ll be a rock climber one day. Priorities shift.

“Lift team’s done, boss,” the mover says.

I pay them a Christmas-sized tip, thank them twice, and dash across the hall to check the second bedroom.

We’ve converted it into Grandma Judy’s retreat—crocheting nook, low loveseat, orthopedic footstool, and a TV for all her classic film needs.

Grandma Judy will pretend she doesn’t notice the heated mattress pad, but I know she has arthritis and will love it.

I love mine, and that’s just for my scar tissue from my wrecks.

Twenty-five minutes. I text Nico a status photo, and he replies with a thumbs-up emoji—uncharacteristically casual for him—and a reminder about the stock-options grant we must sign by close of day.

Relief escalates to rocket fuel. I can juggle nurse schedules and cap-table minutiae. This is going to work.

The gate camera pings. A white adaptive van, the hospital logo painted on the side. I hustle to the foyer just before the doorbell rings. Damn. I hope Tabitha didn’t hear that. Sal’s already there, rolling his shoulder as if the weight of a grab bar still hangs on him.

Grandma Judy exits first, cheeks pink from the cold, her crocheted green scarf trailing. “Morning, boys. I brought blueberry muffins.” She lifts a reusable bag with the pride of a baker presenting a wedding cake.

Then the nurse, Ms. Rios, emerges with a clipboard, followed by Erin, who operates her wheelchair joystick with cautious glee. “This place is huge.”

“Our place in Italy is bigger,” I say, shrugging.

Ms. Rios advises, “You’ll want to get a permanent ramp, something stronger than that thing we came up. Better grip too. The wheels on her chair slid, and we had to push her up it some.”

“I’ll handle that. Thank you for the heads-up.”

She smiles and nods as Grandma Judy hands me the muffin bag. “Tabi still sleeping? We tried not to text spoilers.”

“I think so. Let me show you to your rooms?—”

“Rooms? Plural?” Grandma Judy asks. “We’re not sharing? She needs supervision.”

“I’m fine,” Erin says with all the sass of a teenager.

“You’re across the hall from each other. I hope that’s okay.”

Grandma Judy frets over Erin, playing with an errant curl. “That’ll do. Lead the way.”

I do, but when we get to Erin’s new room, Tabitha’s there. Her eyes pop when she sees her family there. “What’s going on? What is all this?”

“Commotion? Maybe penguins relocated.” My grin gives me away.

She narrows her eyes. “Dante…”

“We know you want to be there for the recovery. This seemed like the best way. Plus, we can all help, so it’s not all on you two and Ms. Rios—she’s the home health nurse we hired. Specializes in pediatric oncology cases, so she’s more than qualified for this.”

“You—why—how?—”

“It’s temporary,” I quickly add. “But if this isn’t what you want?—”

“You did this…for me?”

“For the family, yeah.”

Grandma Judy pats Tabitha’s shoulder. “It was their idea. These fools said daily snow drives were unhealthy for fragile grandmothers.” She scoffs at that. “Like I’m fragile.”

Tabitha laugh-cries, hugs her grandmother, then kneels to Erin’s level as the girl rolls forward. Joy ricochets around the staircase like sunlight through a prism. I memorize every shard.

An hour later, a new ramp is being constructed and the muffins have been eaten.

Tabitha floats from room to room, equal parts hostess and stunned beneficiary, giving the grand tour.

Every time she passes me her hand brushes my elbow, like she’s silently thanking me every time.

Not needed, but I’m not complaining when my girlfriend wants to touch me.

Jubilation wraps the household like fresh plaster, but responsibility beckons. These days, I don’t ignore it. My phone buzzes, and I answer affirmatively.

I’d much rather help Erin unbox her bouldering Lego set, but this marketing subcontract is my pledge to Nico. I will stop saddling him with the comms war and actually use my VP-of-Marketing title for something besides airline-platinum status.

I find Tabitha in Erin’s new room, adjusting her reading lamp. “I have a meeting,” I say, hating the words.

She smiles, all forgiveness. “Go. Save the brand.”

Erin overhears. “Bring me swag!”

“How about more Legos?”

“Even better.”

But as I step out onto the frosted driveway, part of me stays behind, anchored to the image of Tabitha glowing in that repurposed guest room.

Pietro’s headquarters squat in a converted munitions depot on the city’s outskirts, but on the opposite side from us, where it used to be industrial before gentrification.

Some parts still are, so businesses blend with warehouses here.

This part of Dumas’ business is housed in industrial brick, black steel windows, and a white wolf mural howling at artillery shells. A man who loves symbolism.

Inside, the reception smells of sandalwood and data servers.

I don’t want to be here. Not after the stunt he pulled on the last day of Tabitha’s contract.

But if subcontracting with the white wolf keeps Nico from coding Instagram ads at three a.m., so be it.

Dumas is the best in that regard, and I won’t settle for less, ego be damned.

Pietro greets me outside conference room A. His suit is charcoal; his cufflinks show the Armory crest. No guard follows him—either a sign of trust or bait.

“You survived the morning move,” he says. There’s a gleam—approval? Amusement? Hard to know with this man.

Am I surprised he knows our business? No. Does it bother me? Yes. But in the grand scheme of things, it’s his little way of showing off, and if you have to show off that hard, then you don’t actually have much else going on.

I answer. “The noise level is rising exponentially, but we’ll adjust.”

“Women bring more than warmth with them, don’t they?

” He gestures to a seat at a matte-black table where two account leads wait with tablets.

On the screen is a draft creative grid. The MUV logo is embedded in parkour GIFs, 3-D billboards for overseas, some new boards in Los Angeles, and a VR training experience, complete with our entire line.

We discuss deliverables, and a six-month retainer, a cross-platform strategy, and influencer vetting. No more rogue virality surprises. We want complete control over the image. Pietro’s leads quote a number. I negotiate down ten percent but add two bonus activations. Nico would be proud.

At one point, Pietro leans back, steepling his fingers. “Your brothers trust you with this?”

“It’s my division.” I hold his gaze. “Time to act like it.”

“And Tabitha trusts you to lighten Nico’s load.” His tone walks the line between jab and genuine curiosity.

“She trusts us all,” I reply carefully.

“Admirable.” He signs the term sheet with a fountain pen that probably costs more than a Vespa. “Only you as the point of contact. My team answers to you, no one else.”

“Precisely.” I can’t resist. “You realize you’re technically on our payroll now. If you wanted to work for us, all you had to do was ask.”

He smirks. “The Dumas family prefers autonomy. But good partnerships are symbiotic.” He slides the signed pages my way. “And good partners recognize talent.”

He stands, and we shake. His grip is firm but not predatory—maybe our thirty-day saga changed him too, if only a degree. Or maybe wolves respect those who keep the lambs alive.

After, I sit in my car, thinking. On a whim, I open the photo app, create a new album titled T. First image, Tabitha laughing over cappuccino foam. Second, she holds a baguette I made like a conductor’s baton. Third, her tears, joyful, when she heard the wheelchair ramp would be permanent.

Album saved. Cloud-synced. Permanent. Time to head home to my family.

The drive is calming, despite the speed.

Nothing eats away anxiety like tires eating the road.

The villa roofline appears beyond the next rise, spires like iced-cake turrets.

Inside are new noises—a teenager discovering our elevator, a grandmother humming Christmas tunes well after the holiday is over, my brothers debating motor torque on stair-assist devices.

And Tabitha, somewhere inside, learning that loving us doesn’t mean sacrificing her rhythm.

The car slows, gates open, and my pulse does something odd—it steadies. Maybe I can fly off cliffs on weekends and schedule weekday marketing matrices. Maybe balance isn’t the absence of motion but the harmony of it.

I pocket the term sheet and step onto the snowy drive.

Time to deliver good news—and maybe sneak Erin a spoiler about tonight’s homemade unicorn-marshmallow batch.