The Lost Girl of Astor Street(77)

Mariano swallows hard and looks away.

“If you weren’t hiding it, why weren’t you honest with me, Mariano? Why didn’t you tell me about your family?”

His words are frosty. “When, exactly, was I dishonest? I thought you knew. I thought, ‘How could she not know her old man is an associate?’”

I cringe at his choice of words. My father, whose job should be upholding the law, protects criminals from suffering consequences for the laws they break. My house, my education, and my clothes—all paid for with money that costs too much.

I brush away the offense and take a deep breath. “You knew I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did.” I look him in the eyes. “Because I told you so when we were on Clark Street.”

Mariano’s larynx bobs, and I can see he remembers just as clearly as I do. Your father doesn’t talk to you about his clients, then?

I let the memory settle between us. “You should’ve told me at that moment.”

“Maybe I should have.” Mariano pulls off his hat. Puts it back on. “But when I realized you hadn’t figured out our family connection . . . I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want you to think less of me.”

“Is this why you won’t go after the Finnegans? Bad blood between your families?”

His eyes snap. “I can’t believe you’d even suggest that.”

“Piper.” Walter’s voice booms from behind us, making me jump. “Your father’s looking for you.”

I turn and find Walter towering over us, a flat expression on his face. “Tell him I don’t want to see him.”

Walter doesn’t budge.

“I said, I don’t want to see him.”

Walter looks to Mariano and then back at me. “Piper, he’s about to leave for a month. You can stop whatever you’re doing here for a minute and come say good-bye.”

“No.”

Walter’s knees pop as he crouches behind me. “I’m not above begging, you know. Please don’t make me tell your father bad news on his wedding day.”

I lean back so my shoulders rest against Walter’s knees. “My father is a lawyer for the mafia. Did you know this?”

Walter glances at Mariano, and then back at me. “Piper, you knew that.”

“I knew some of his cases involved mobsters, but I didn’t realize the extent of it.”

“You said it yourself,” Mariano says. “That they do horrific things, but they have a right to a fair trial too.”

“Is that what my father provides?” I know I sound hysterical, but I can’t seem to calm my voice down. “A fair trial?”

Walter’s big hands clasp my shoulders. “Listen, Pippy. Just put on a smile for another hour. Say good-bye, throw some rice, and then we can sort all this out.”

“So Father gets to spend a month carelessly gallivanting around Europe while I stew over this? I don’t think so.”

“What’s there to stew over? He’s a defense attorney. This is part of his job.”

“Fine.” I stand abruptly. If I go inside, at least I can get away from Mariano. “I’ll go talk to him.”

“Cool off, or you’ll wind up yelling,” Walter cautions.

“Maybe that’s not a bad thing. Maybe he deserves to be yelled at.” I yank one shoe strap off my ankle. Then the other. “But not in these stupid shoes. I’m done with these.”

“Piper—”

“Just let her be.” Mariano’s words are gruff. “She’s smart enough to decide for herself.”

“Don’t flatter me.” I brush imagined concrete dust from my dress, toss my wretched shoes into a wastebasket, and charge into the lobby in my stocking feet.




Father is engaged in conversation with the photographer when I tug at his sleeve. “I need a word with you.”

“Ah, there you are!” He puts an arm around me and draws me to his side. “Smile pretty.”

The flashbulb goes off.

I blink away the bright circle that clouds my vision.

“Perfect!” declares the photographer. “The wedding just wouldn’t have been complete, Mr. Sail, without a photograph of you and your lovely daughter.”

I demure in such a way that would win Emily Post’s approval and then take my father’s offered elbow. My head is so flooded with the words I want to lob at him, I can’t seem to grab hold of a single one.

“I’m glad Walter found you. I wanted to have a moment with you before I left town,” Father says as he leads me to the hall outside the ballroom. “Where have your shoes gone?”

I look down at my stockings. “They were hurting.”

“You women and your impractical shoes.” Father pauses along a row of windows and smiles indulgently at me. “How are you, my dear? I know it hasn’t been the easiest day for you.”

I look into Father’s happy face. “Tired,” is the answer that comes out. “I’m very tired.”

Father nods with sympathy. “It’s been an exhausting month, hasn’t it?”

There’s a war going on within me. I want to stomp my feet and yell and demand answers. Exactly how much of our life is bought by the mafia? How could he let me date Mariano?