The Lost Girl of Astor Street(80)

“What did Mariano say?”

“What else would he say? Of course he denied it.” I shove away the memory of Mariano’s hurt face.

“If he really were crooked, don’t you think your father would have stopped you from seeing him?”

“Then why would Nick have said it?”

Walter snorts. “Because Nick is unhappy. And when Nick is unhappy, he tries to drag everyone else down in the muck. Especially you. He did the same thing when your mother died.”

Sidekick licks the cracker from my hand. “Mariano had a chance to tell me about his family, and he didn’t.”

“Then I would ask him about it.”

“I did.”

“And?”

“He said he was embarrassed.”

“And do you believe him?”

“I don’t know.” I think about saying more, releasing the jumble of words clogging up my brain. Instead, I just say again, “I don’t know.”

But I think I do believe Mariano. Does that make me stupid and na?ve?

The thing is, if I’m being honest, I probably would have lied too in Mariano’s situation. I think what really has me bothered is how this doesn’t coincide with who I’d built Mariano up to be—a “what you see is what you get” kind of guy. I didn’t want Mariano to come with baggage of his own, like an ex-fiancé or undesirable family.

An ex-fiancé, I can ignore.

This new facet of him, however, is too big to ignore. But is it too big for me to accept?




Nick stumbles through the front door, startling me awake. His laughter has a cruel edge to it. “Well, there she is. The star of the show.”

I stretch my aching muscles. How long have I been sleeping in Father’s chair? “And how was your evening, Nick?”

He responds with a glare.

“Did you and Alana have a nice time out?”

More glaring.

I fumble for my bookmark and close This Side of Paradise. “My evening wasn’t great either, if it makes you feel any better.”

Nick chucks his hat toward the coat rack and seems unaware that it falls to the floor. “It helps, yes.”

I should’ve taken my book up to my room to read. When he’s been drinking, Nick is downright intolerable. “I’m sensing you’re mad at me.”

He barks a laugh. “Because of your terrible behavior at the wedding, I had to hear about you all night.” He pitches his voice high and mocking. “Do you think Piper’s okay? Should we go home? Do you think she’d want to talk to me about it?”

I frown. “Who was saying this?”

“Alana.” He fumbles in his coat pockets. “I swear, sometimes it’s like she’s two different people. Here I’m trying to get somewhere with her, and she wouldn’t stop talking about you. She’s obsessed.”

“Well, maybe she didn’t want you getting anywhere with her. You ever think of that?”

“Father lets you get away with too much, that’s what I say.” Nick pulls his package of cigarettes from his pocket. “All girls should be like Lydia LeVine. Sweet, timid little things.”

“You won’t hear any argument from me.”

Nick’s eyes slide closed. “Lydia.” Hearing the way he speaks her name—wistful and heartbroken—melts away my anger. “It just still seems so unreal that she’s gone.”

“I know.”

Nick holds up the package of cigarettes. “Want to keep me company?”

“Sure.”

I nudge Sidekick off my lap, wrap the throw around my shoulders, and follow my brother onto the front porch. Astor Street is quiet at this hour, with just the occasional car rumbling by. Nick settles alongside me on the front porch step and takes a long drag of his cigarette.

I watch Sidekick sniff about the yard in a haphazard way. “If you still care so much about Lydia, why are you even bothering with Alana? She doesn’t live here. Nothing’s going to happen.”

“Maybe it’s just nice having someone who’s interested in me.” He flicks his cigarette, and ash dances away in the night. “Lydia sure wasn’t.”

“Are you so sure that Alana is interested in you? Seems to me, all she cares about is getting a good story.”

Nick’s shrug is sharp. Dismissive. “I can’t believe you didn’t know who Mariano was. Normally, you’re the smart one in the family.”

My teeth grind together, but I have nothing to say in my defense. The evidence was all there—who Mariano’s family is, what my father’s client list really looks like—and I just hadn’t let myself think too deeply on it. Hadn’t wanted to question for fear of what the answers might be.

Nick laughs—the loud and unaware laugh that comes from too much gin. “Didn’t you ever wonder where all our booze came from?”

“The wine cellar, of course.”

“And who do you think supplies our wine cellar, sister?”

“I don’t drink any of it, so I guess I hadn’t thought that far.” It seems just as stupid now as it did when I said it to Father, but I tell Nick anyway. “I thought the men Father defended were mostly innocent.” Nick smirks, and I ignore him. “Or that if they were guilty, it was of breaking a law that didn’t really matter. I never thought they might be really bad guys.”