Chapter 7 – Nicky
Sugar and spice and everything nice filled the kitchen.
The arm of the stand mixer thumped the butter and powdered sugar in the bowl, saving me from having to use my muscles, which were already limp from rolling and cutting dozens of shapes from the dough.
On the small TV screen, Kevin cackled with fiendish delight as he chased out the burglars.
That movie had been on repeat all afternoon, a prelude to my own impish plans.
Baking enough cookies to feed an army seemed like a great idea while I waited for the expedited delivery that was due to come by nine tonight.
The baking seemed like a fun-filled way to bring some holiday cheer to the sepulchral mansion.
Adding another cup of water to the glass teapot on the stove, I ensured the fruit and spices kept simmering for another hour, while I prepped the last batch of frosting for decorating day tomorrow.
The rich citrus scent melded with the cloves, anise, and cinnamon, and the apple slices lent a sweet note to the concoction.
The simmer pot was almost tempting to drink.
But I was on a straight espresso and sugar diet today.
Just another hour, and I’ll be done.
I sighed and cracked my back. Amanda, to make up for last weekend, was taking tomorrow off, and coming back early in the morning for a full, three-day weekend.
She didn’t know yet if she’d have to go back to New York for Monday and Tuesday before Christmas Eve on Wednesday.
The Grinch. But that gave me today and…tonight.
Maybe I could have another encounter with my midnight monster.
If he came back.
“I hope he comes back,” I muttered. He might not come this weekend when I wasn’t home alone.
That morose thought made my chest squeeze tight.
After multiple nights without another break-in, I missed his visit last night.
But the ghost of Christmas present had left me several gifts.
It made his presence more than a dark fantasy.
Cristiano was thoughtful. Observant. Caring.
The intruder had stalkerish accuracy in that he found things I wanted and put thought behind his gifts.
And it made my poor, stupid heart melt a little more.
If I was going to unmask the monster, if I was going to reveal the man beneath, that was going to make this twisted relationship real.
Or send him running.
With another sigh, I flicked off the mixer right as the front door rang. “My packages!”
I took off sprinting for the delivery. It was going to happen tonight! Time to unmask the monster, to confirm my suspicions that this was the boy I’d known, and see if the man was ready for the future.
I was.
Ripping open the front door, I pulled up short. “Oh, hi.”
“Nicole, damn,” Donald Patrick Jefferson the Third breathed, sending an appreciative glance over me. “You look sweet enough to eat, girl.”
I crossed my arms over the pink apron, my bare arms and legs already covered in gooseflesh from the cold. “What brings you over?”
Donny grabbed the back of his neck, tugging on it awkwardly. “This is meant to be romantic, but I should’ve given you a heads up.”
“You think?” I groused. I did not enjoy being caught in my spandex shorts and athletic tee, covered in flour and sugar, with my hair flopped messily on the top of my head. “And what do you mean ‘romantic’?”
The smile he plastered on his face would win him a senatorial candidacy. “I came to take you out.”
“Donny,” I groaned. “I’m not interested.”
He raised a palm. “Before you say no, hear me out.”
I pursed my lips. Would it be social suicide to slam the door in his face? Did I care? This family was connected in the city, and I did have to find a job at some point. My references were already botched thanks to the disaster back in Europe, so I shouldn’t burn the already feeble threads here.
But it was hella tempting to do it, just to see the shock on the golden boy’s face.
While I’d been contemplating the result of my actions, Donny jabbered away.
“So what ’dya say? Sounds like fun, right?” The hope glowing in his sky-blue eyes would have sent any other girl into a flutter of delight.
I tried not to gag. “I’m busy.”
And just like that, it was as though I kicked a puppy. “I thought you’d like it. They say Messina is the best fighter in the country right now.”
That name sent a rush of adrenaline crackling through my veins. “You mean Cristiano Messina?”
“Yeah, I think that’s his name.” Donny frowned. “I can’t remember. Sorry, I’m new to the sport.”
“Okay, fine.” I stepped aside. “I’ll come. Do me a favor? Go shut the stove off, put the frosting in the fridge, and I’ll be right down.”
I tore upstairs.
On the drive over, I would make it very clear that this wasn’t a date.
This was two friends catching up, and Donny would have to understand I wasn’t interested in anything else.
I put on jeans and a chunky sweater. Hopping on one foot, I zipped up my knee-high boots that gave me a few more inches, and then slid large gold hoops through my earlobes.
Back in the kitchen, I found the trust fund prince munching on a cookie, glued to the TV. “I haven’t seen Home Alone in years,” he said with a smile. “Maybe we could watch it sometime.”
I flicked the screen off and went to remove the stainless-steel bowl from the mixer.
“Sorry, I couldn’t figure out how to unattach it,” Donny said, coming up behind me.
Useless man. I forced myself not to snap at him, but it was tempting, especially when his arm brushed against my waist. The cloying, chemical cologne assaulted my senses. I scooted around him, taking the frosting to the fridge.
“Donny, I’m only going because you bothered to get us tickets,” I stated, setting the dish in the fridge. I would cover it later. “This isn’t a date.”
He popped the rest of the stocking in his mouth and grinned. “I’ll be the perfect gentleman,” he said around a mouth full of cookie.
***
The unsanctioned fight was being held in a refurbished industrial warehouse.
The venue was packed. Boston was the city of hardworking, blue-collar workers.
Their grit and determination was renowned.
Tonight, they came out in droves to watch a local fighter take on a beast from the frozen tundra across the pond.
They whispered that the Siberian fighter was a product of human engineering.
Vlad was a brute; there was no denying the physical evidence.
He loomed in the corner of the ring, glaring into the void. His gaze was unfocused, his mind seemed unhinged.
I let Donny pull me to the VIP section, as an upbeat anthem from the Dropkick Murphys boomed over the speakers. The crowd roared in response, already familiar with the tune both the Bruins and the Celtics used. While it had a decidedly Irish undercurrent, the melody spoke of home.
The music and energy of the crowd swept through me, and I turned to chant the lyrics to I’m Shipping up to Boston as the local boy paraded through the crowd. Standing well over six feet tall, weighing in at two-hundred and twenty pounds, Messina was a legend.
My heart skipped against my chest.
There was no mistaking that face, carved from ice and stone.
This was the Cristiano Messina I knew. The boy who’d been my playfellow when my father was a regular Joe.
Messina grew up well. His body was a work of art, all cut muscle and bronze skin proclaiming his Italian heritage, but the ink decorating it was new.
It has to be him.
Just from the way he walked through the crowd, his fight team pushing aside the eager viewers, I felt that I knew the man. Put a mask and dark clothing on him, and he would easily fit the description of my midnight monster. My thief. I leaned forward, cheering with the throng of voices.
Messina didn’t look in my direction. A small pulse of hurt thudded in my chest. If he was the monster who’d been breaking into my house, it was probably smart that he didn’t see me. His head needed to be in the game for this fight.
But before the night was over, I wanted one look.
One small confirmation that the Cristiano Messina was my dark knight who also had the same given name.
I wouldn’t allow myself to think they weren’t one and the same. Who else would call me Nicky? Who else would be that obsessed with me? Some random stranger? No…the monster’s vehement claim that I was his angel had to come from a deeper place.
Messina jogged up the steps, climbed into the ring, and bounced lightly on his heels.
“It doesn’t matter what the Rusky’s pound-for-pound hits weight. Messina fights point,” someone behind me called.
I turned around and threw over my shoulder, “Should be one hell of a match, then!”
The classy guy in a sweater vest and his buddy with a Red Sox cap gave me a nod.
“What’s that mean?” Donny shouted in my ear.
Trying not to breathe the ripe cologne, I explained, “Point Kickboxing. It means his control is unmatched. He’ll be loose, taunting, almost like he’s dancing.”
Donny nodded slowly, face scrunched in concentration. “So, Messina’s a solid investment?”
I tore my eyes off the ring, where the announcer was calling out the pre-fight rules. “What do you mean, investment?”
Donny smirked. “I’m in talks to be one of his biggest sponsors.”
But you don’t know the first thing about his fighting style? I rolled my eyes hard enough that they almost fell out of my skull.
“See, I knew you liked this.” Donny sidled closer to me. His hand slid around my back, tracing my spine through the chunky sweater. “I didn’t use to understand you, Nicole, but I remembered how odd you were.”
I jerked away. “Yeah, I’m a weirdo. But you don’t have to invest in this just to impress me.”
Donny just laughed, but thankfully dropped his hand. “Relax, I took an interest in the underground fights when I heard how lucrative they could be.”
“Well, thanks for inviting me,” I started to say, but the bell rang. Air stuck in my throat. My lungs refused to work.