The Lost Girl of Astor Street(87)

Mariano slants a glare my way as he pulls out into traffic. “I know what you’re after, and it’s not going to work. For one thing, word is the Prohibition bureau is building a case against the Finnegans, and I don’t want to find you two in the wrong place at the wrong time and wind up in the crossfire.”

Emma’s hand grasps the Peter Pan collar of her dress. “Do you think Robbie is involved?”

“What I know is that this is a dangerous neighborhood to be in right now. When you go after these kinds of people, you better have a plan in place, or you’ll wind up six feet under.”

“You certainly paint a very vivid picture, detective,” Emma says in a breathless voice. “It just seems like if they’re breaking the law, and if you can prove it, that would be that.”

Oh, sweet Emma.

“In a perfect world, that’s how things would work. But this isn’t a perfect world. This is Chicago.”

His words seem to reverberate in the car.

“Robbie just seemed so nice . . .” Emma’s voice is watery.

I turn in my seat. “Robbie is nice. It’s possible he’s mixed up in something bad, but I still believe he’s a nice guy. Maybe he’s trying to get out? Maybe that’s the news he doesn’t want to share with you yet?”

“Maybe.” But Emma’s face retains the kicked-puppy look. “Though that seems awfully optimistic.”

“That’s the funny thing about Piper. She seems tough. But really”—Mariano winks at me—“on the inside, she’s as soft as they come.”




“You may think it’s crazy that she would want your help with something like that, but I don’t.” Mariano twists his fork to gather spaghetti. “Who else is she going to ask?”

“I’ve at least learned he’s not married. So it hasn’t been totally fruitless.” I frown. Unless his wife and kids live in a different town . . .

“You found a smart way to get up to his apartment. That can be tough.”

“But I couldn’t figure out how to get back out without blowing my cover.”

Mariano tilts his head. “Sure you did.”

After a beat, I catch his meaning. “Well, yeah, technically. But I had to get outside help.”

Mariano shrugs. “There’s a reason policemen work in pairs.”

I peek out the window to be sure Sidekick is still tied to the street lamp outside—he is—and then glance about Madame Galli’s Italian restaurant. Tonight, the tables are bursting with young couples and groups of friends, mostly young professional types. I recognize a few judges, whom I met at Father’s wedding. I guess it’s no surprise considering our proximity to the courthouse.

“Can I talk to you about what happened at the wedding?” Mariano’s question pulls me back to the table.

“Of course.” I put another bite in my mouth despite my sudden lack of hunger.

He looks at me with those rich brown eyes of his. “First of all, I want to apologize for lying to you. I told myself I wasn’t lying, but I was.

“Up until that moment on Clark Street, I honestly thought you knew. I wasn’t thinking about you being a girl, and that maybe your father would try to protect you in some way from the kind of work he does. Because that’s not the kind of house I grew up in.”

Mariano takes a long drink of his Coke. “My father has always been very open about what he does. There was no reason not to be. While it may seem strange to you, being a mafiasi family is a proud thing in my culture. My father is the third generation of Cassanos to serve, and I would have been the fourth.”

My heart leaps with that beautiful phrase—would have been.

Mariano takes several deep breaths, and his face seems to darken with each one. Then, quietly, “For as long as I can remember, my father has chided me for being too soft.” When he looks at me, his face is boyish and vulnerable. “I’m built lean, like the men on my mother’s side. Not like Father and Uncle Lucas, or my brothers. And I always enjoyed reading, which my father considered a hobby better suited for a girl. Because there was an expectation that I too would cut my own path in the mafia, Father would find ways—activities—to help toughen me.” Shadows seem to cross Mariano’s face. “Things I won’t tell you about.”

My hands reach across the table, grasp for his.

He smiles at the sight and raises his gaze to me. “Maybe, had I been of Father’s generation, I would have stayed in the family business. But with Prohibition and bootlegging, the stakes have only gotten higher. Things like omertá don’t hold the weight they once did.”

“Omertá?”

“It’s a value we hold as Sicilians. We protect our own. But with all these new players in the mix, like the Finnegans and Capone, and the obsession with territory, omertá is a dying ethic.”

Mariano is silent for a bit, his mind clearly elsewhere.

“So you are—and I mean this in the best way possible—just a detective?”

Mariano grins. “Yes, Piper. Just a detective. Though it doesn’t make my family as happy as it does you. Becoming a civil servant is equivalent to betraying the family name. I’m not a real man. I don’t have what it takes. Etcetera.” He shrugs, but I can read the hurt on his face as clearly as a bruise. “It’s only gotten worse this year. They thought . . . Well, they thought my job could work to their advantage.” The sentence tumbles out of him in a rush. “Don’t judge them for that, please.”