The Matchmaker

by Pamela DuMond

  Predators see. They like. They take.

  Predators lurk in dark alleys, bright hallways, in plain sight. They steal pocketbooks, virtues and sex. Perhaps they spot you online and decide you have something they want. You don’t matter. You are simply a means to an end.

  My shrink and I decided that I needed to channel my desire to help into something positive. I started baking more. Fun, but that didn’t quite pay the bills. My shrink encouraged me to find a job with healthy boundaries. I drew from the well of my parents’ firm commitment to spread love. They adopted children. They participated in helping community. It made sense to help people find their slice of the happily-ever-after pie. I started White Glove on a shoestring with a desire to help people do just that. I built it through hard work and financial help from my sister and her wife.

  You’d never know from looking around the Agency’s holiday party tonight that I’d spent lonely years desperate for redemption as any back alley sinner, huddled in a grimy ball against a cold stone wall. I didn’t date. I didn’t party. I didn’t hook up. Instead I worked, spending fifteen hours every single damn day for five years building White Glove Agency into a powerhouse. Now it was the premiere elite private matchmaking business in Chicago. So, when Violet Accardi asked me to attend Christmas Eve mass with her and her family I wanted to say yes. I just didn’t know how to.

  No big deal, she’d said. Just some folks to hang out with and sing Christmas carols and light candles. If I was at all interested in that kind of thing.

  I was.

  I was always interested in that kind of thing.

  I longed to be with family at Christmas. Mom and Dad had passed over ten years ago. They were older when they adopted my sister and me. Sydney was all that remained of family but she usually celebrated the holidays someplace gorgeous, exotic, and Instagram-able with her sweet and photogenic wife. She asked me to meet up with her and Nora this Christmas but I had too much to get done.

  I’d promised myself when I left Blessed Name Parish in Boston that I’d never go back to church. As much as I was drawn to Violet Accardi, stepping back into a house of worship would be reneging on those vows and everything I believed in. I’d even fashioned a new Christmas tradition: taking in a movie.

  I scanned the new flicks opening over Christmas and picked a French film playing at the local Cineplex. I’d have to concentrate on the language. Between that and the subtitles it would take my mind off the double punch of not spending the holidays with family or worship. A great story could numb it all for a bit.

  I ordered my ticket online and the next day, Christmas afternoon, I walked from my apartment to the theatres. I sat in the back of the darkened auditorium and made it through the first twenty minutes before the gnawing urge to see Violet won the day. I stood up and handed my popcorn to the guy next to me. “Merry Christmas.”

  “Thank you.” He took the bag from me. “I didn’t get you anything this year.”

  “No worries.” I edged past him into the aisle. “I’m your Secret Santa.”

  “I suspected as much.” He popped buttery corn into his mouth.

  I left the theater and strode through the nearly desolate city streets toward Cathedral Basilica, the church where Violet said they’d be celebrating mass. I stationed myself across the street from the sanctuary, leaning against the cold limestone of a swank department store. I glanced down at my phone, pretending to scroll, staying in the background of the churchgoers like some weirdo stalker. Ten minutes later my ass cheek was numb.

  I was about ready to call it a day when a shiny black SUV pulled up to the curb in front of the cathedral. Muscle heads in slick black suits exited, scanning the well dressed, Christmas Eve crowd before they opened the back doors.

  Violet popped out of the passenger door, wearing a blue coat and black boots. She was a soft blend of color in December’s light, a pastel scarf wrapped around her neck, one flap trailing over her shoulder. Her long brunette hair slid over her shoulders making her look like one of those cartoon princesses. She glanced around the hubbub of people as if she was searching for someone. I fantasized she was looking for me, wondering if I’d show up even though I’d turned her down. Twice. What kind of special asshole was I?

  A shiver traveled down my spine.

  No good could come from this.

  I might have pretended to be Violet Accardi’s fiancé but that was simply to get her uncle’s goon off her radar. Yes, I loved hanging out with her at the party and felt my balls tighten when she leaned up against me and proclaimed it was the damn mistletoe. It was a movie moment. A dangerous one.

  I fantasized about taking her home to my apartment. Our conversation over a glass of wine would lead to long, slow kissing. I’d unzip that velvet dress and watch in awe as it slid to the floor in front of me. I’d pull her to me and I’d bet she’d be as soft under that dress as she was on top. Lips meant to be kissed, mouth explored, her elegant, long neck meant to be nibbled on.

  My mouth would journey over the sweet sharpness of her clavicles, down to her breast that I’d cup over her bra until I unhooked it with her consent. It would open and I’d be given the gift of seeing Violet’s beautiful, naked breasts. I’d flick my thumb over her rosebud nipple, taking delight as it hardened under my touch. I’d press my lips to her chest, drawing a breast into my mouth; sucking, licking, nibbling, scraping the stubble on my chin across her delicate skin. I’d move onto the other breast.

  My dick twitched in my pants just thinking about the infinite possibilities.

  I prided myself on being a gentleman. I did not go back to her place but do not doubt for a heartbeat that I longed to fuck Violet Accardi. Was declining her offer a setback? A cooling off? Perhaps. But I’d learned the hard way that setbacks usually happened for the best. In reality, Violet deserved to meet someone who was available for a relationship. I wasn’t that guy. I wasn’t ready to get married. I would never be ready to get married.

  She turned away, taking a middle-aged woman’s arm sweetly, protectively. She escorted her to the church’s entrance. A group of people who appeared to be her family, trailed behind her. The older folks were chatting while the kids ran excitedly in front of them. They were all picture perfect except for one very tall, gawky older woman with a sweep of long white hair.

  As they all entered the church, I imagined they would sing carols, celebrate the season, roll their eyes over family members’ antics, and still have a great time.

  I didn’t spot Salvatore, and assumed he had the night off. Perhaps even meatloaves had wives and families and celebrated the holidays. I’d made the right decision about tonight. My life was fresh. My life was clean. My life was working.

  There was an abrupt screech of tires and a dark gray Mercedes sedan pulled to the curb on my side of the street. Salvatore stepped out and opened the back door. Apparently, meatloaves still worked on holidays.

  “Mr. Black?” a man said.

  I gazed into Vincent Accardi’s roadmap-lined face. Sharp cheekbones, hawk nose. He was Violet’s mobster uncle? The man who had tried to buy out her contract with White Glove Matchmaking Agency for sixty thousand—double our going rate—a few weeks ago? “Mr. Accardi. Can I help you?”

  “I certainly hope so. “We need to talk.” Vincent beckoned to me. “Join me.”

  “This isn’t the best time.” I stared up into the Salvatore’s squinty, pig-shaped eyes as he placed a firm gigantic hand on my arm and propelled me toward the car.

  “Sadly, this is the only time,” Vincent said.

  I sat next to him in the back of the car as we headed toward Chicago’s Midway airport. He interviewed me about my business as well as my intentions about his niece, Violet. “Yes, I’m sure we’ll have a lengthy engagement,” I said.

  Christmas day traffic was light and the driver dropped us off at the terminal. “Walk with me, Aiden,” he said. A short time later we were on a cart motoring across the tarmac toward a sleek private jet.

  “I’m sure
you can appreciate how I find myself between a rock and a hard place,” Vincent Accardi said. The harsh mechanical noises of airplanes, trucks, and machinery shrieked in the background.

  “Not really.” I leaned in to better hear him.

  “Put yourself in my shoes. I discover you are—poof—mysteriously engaged to my niece, even though she is promised to another man.”

  “Apologies, Mr. Accardi. But Violet has assured me she is not engaged to anyone.” The cold December night winds gusted, I shivered and pulled the collar of my overcoat higher on my neck. “Anyone other than me, that is.”

  “Why didn’t I even know that you were dating my niece?”

  After Vincent Accardi—rumored mob boss—surfaced that afternoon at White Glove Agency a few weeks ago, I researched his background. Police records documented him consorting with Ralphie, aka ‘Wrinkles’ Rubiano, Sly the Slayer Savelli, and Polenta ‘Stinky Balls’ Disgrace. This was the guy I was lying to, not some courtroom jester. Problem was, I wasn’t the best liar in the world. And yet, I couldn’t leave Violet all on her own, hanging out to dry from the ramifications of our prank. It was time to up my game. “It was a whirlwind, sir. Practically love at first sight. We met. Sparks flew. One thing led to another.”

  “Right.” He pulled his phone from his overcoat and checked a text. “The family enjoyed Christmas mass. Jeanie says the organist did a splendid job with the carols this year. My granddaughter wants an angel dress like the altar girl. Florentina says the incense has more than a whiff of high-grade weed. Why didn’t you accompany your fiancé to church services?”

  “Year end. Just consumed with work. Violet understands what it’s like to run her own company.”

  “Good boy.” He smiled. The way his lips curved reminded me of a shark. “Business first. Pleasure second. Keep that in mind, Aiden, and you’ll go far in life.”

  “I wouldn’t really put it like that, sir. I can’t abandon everything that needs to get done just because the holidays are upon us. Even though—well, your niece is adorable.”

  “The curse of the Accardi women.” He spat on the tarmac and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “They’re hot. They’re smart. They can talk you into anything. You’re in trouble, my friend.”

  “I am?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He climbed the staircase into the Gulfstream private jet. “I can’t wait to get to know my future nephew-in-law better. I’m thrilled we’ll be spending the rest of Christmas week together.”

  “I’m sorry?” A flu-like wave snaked from my brain and slithered into my stomach. “How so?”

  “Work or no work I assume you planned on spending the holidays with Violet. Good thing we’ve got a window of time to figure all this shit out who’s really engaged to Violet. I hear through the grapevine, Aiden that you like to cook.”

  One of his thugs carried my suitcases—my suitcases—complete with luggage tags up the stairs into the jet. A chill zipped down my spine. “Mr. Accardi, sir. I think there’s been a mistake.”

  “You don’t like to cook?”

  “No, I love to cook.” I took the steps two at a time after him. “Those are my bags. Wait, is that my laptop?”

  “Do you bake?”

  “Yes, sir, but I don’t understand what this has to do with the holidays…”

  “We are headed to a fabulous place where people like to cook. They cook up schemes. They cook up trouble. So many opportunities, Aiden. You’ll tell me your secrets,” he said and smiled again. “And I’ll share a few of mine.”

  “Um… Mr. Accardi, why don’t we talk about this after the New Year? I’ll just take my computer back and it would be nice if I could grab my bags, and—”

  He paused at the top of the stairs and glanced at his cell. “Your sister and her pretty wife posted these pictures from Ristorante Romano in that quaint town they’re visiting in Italy. From the looks on their faces they enjoyed the mushroom risotto with a pinch of fennel for the first course. Secondi was the roasted chicken with herbs.” He held out his phone toward me.

  I stared at it in disbelief. “You follow my sister on Instagram?”

  “I do now. Don’t you love the filter on this photo?” He tapped the screen. “Makes it look like the herbs are leaping off the dead bird’s skin. The white chocolate gelato looks perfecto for dessert. I assume the tour guide took the picture of them. They always hire a tour guide, right?”

  “Yes…”

  “Oh look! Here’s one where Sydney, Nora, and their tour guide took a selfie together. Flavio Savelli might resemble a simple chaperone, but I paid for his photography school. He’s got an eye for composition. He’s multi-talented. Do you want to know what else he’s good at?”

  I swallowed, my mouth suddenly parched, like I’d inhaled desert air. “No.”

  “Join me for a few days. If all goes well maybe we’ll all get lucky, and you’ll never find out the other thing that Flavio is killer good at—”

  “He’s killer good—”

  “He’s killer excellent,” Vincent said. “Oh, by the way, thanks for keeping your passport updated. That made things easier.”

  “Where exactly are we going?”

  Chapter Four

  Violet

  Christmas mass at Cathedral Basilica was so pretty. Rosalia asked me to light a candle with her in the alcove next to the Virgin Mary statue. Help her say a prayer that she’d meet her perfect husband soon. Apparently, Tyler Gentry was too ‘American’ for her tastes.

  “You do know you’re in United States, right?” I asked. “You’re bound to run into a lot of American guys while you’re here.”

  “I want to go home.” She mumbled a prayer in Italian, lit another candle, and crossed herself. “Now.”

  We made our way back to the front pew in time for the service. We sang carols and listened to an inspirational sermon about unity, love, and the true meaning of the holidays. The adults and teens took communion, and the younger cousins received blessings. We greeted fellow parishioners, friendly faces on the way out, and exited just in time for the next round of worshippers to roll in. I loved Christmas and was practically high from the beauty, the love, and the sweetness. And yet I couldn’t help but wonder what Aiden Black was doing.

  What were his prior plans? He was probably opening perfectly-wrapped presents and spending time with an immaculate girl who’d flown in to spend the holiday with him. I pictured her as tall and blond, an East Coast WASP. She’d have a generic name like Emily. She undoubtedly attended an all–girl college where she got a degree in something impractical like English Lit. I bet her luggage didn’t match but still managed to look bohemian chic. She probably was cooking Christmas Eve dinner for him, or worse, with him, and it was organic, non-GMO, and gluten free.

  I hated her.

  Why did I imagine for a heartbeat that Aiden would want to spend time with me and my damaged goods family? Mobster Uncle. Clingy mother. Sex kitten cousin. Thugs for bodyguards and babysitters. And somewhere out there was some random guy I’d apparently been promised to in a backroom deal. He was probably sixty, sported dentures, spent some time in the pen, and needed Viagra to get it up. He probably didn’t know what a clit was, let alone where it was located.

  After church I thought we’d be doing the traditional gig at Aunt Florentina’s house in Hinsdale for lunch and open presents, but our driver headed straight for Midway airport.

  “Honey, you know we always take a little trip around the holidays,” Mom said.

  I sighed and texted my assistant Nolan because someone had to hold down the fort.

  Violet: Leaving town unexpectedly. Hold down the fort for a few days.

  Nolan: Don’t I always? Where is your awful family making you go?

  Violet: Probably the family lake house in Door County.

  Nolan: That sounds nice. A crackling fire. Lots of snow. You can resurrect your Wisconsin accent.

  Violet: I don’t have a Wisconsin accent.

  Nolan: You do every
time you return from your family’s lake house in Door County.

  I frowned.

  Violet: I’ll only be gone overnight. The reception’s spotty up there. Answer emails. Important questions. We’ve got a shipment of our spring line of T-shirts and tights due in before the New Year.

  Nolan: Squee!

  Violet: Not squee. Check the office to make sure the packages aren’t stacked against outside our front door in the hallway.

  Nolan: Will do boss. When are you back?

  Violet: 48 hours.

  Nolan: Merry Christmas, Violet.

  Violet: Merry Christmas, Nolan.

  “No one told me we were flying to Door County,” I said as a cart drove us across the tarmac and deposited us a few dozen yards close to the base of a mid-sized jet. I climbed the plane’s stairs behind my mother. “I can’t go to the lake house, Mom. I only packed a few things for staying one night at your place. Not five in Wisconsin.”

  “Oh look, Uncle Vincent is already here,” Mom said. “And he brought a guest. A handsome guest.”

  My hand flew to my chest at the same time Aiden Black sprang from his seat and stared at me, an odd look on his gorgeous face. “What are you—”

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t join you for mass,” he said.

  “But, ‘Tada’ you are here?”

  “But, Tada, I am here.”

  “You drove all the way to Midway Airport to say Merry Christmas before we left for Wisconsin?”

  “Surprise, Violet,” Mom said. “We’re not going to Wisconsin.”

  “Even better,” Aiden said. “I’m traveling with you. We get to spend the holiday together.”