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.”
I squeeze his hands.
“They didn’t ask for anything at first.” His voice has dipped quiet and thoughtful again. “And then one of Doherty’s men got gunned down. It wasn’t us—not that time—but Uncle Lucas thought it could be a chance to expand our territory, to run the Finnegan brothers out. They wanted me to ‘help’ with the investigation, and . . .” Mariano shook his head. “When I wouldn’t, there were a lot of words about family loyalty, my priorities. I thought Zola would understand, would be on my side, but when she gave me back the ring, she said she couldn’t marry a traitor to the family. That was last fall. And I haven’t been invited to a family event since.”
“Oh, Mariano.” The pain on his face has me itching to do something, to fix this for him. But there’s nothing that can be done. “I’m so sorry.”
He drains the last of his Coke. “It was hard at the time, especially when Zola walked away, but I see now that it was good. How much worse it would’ve been to marry someone who disapproves of me.” For a moment, he stares into his spaghetti. “I suppose that’s why I got so angry at the wedding. To Zola, I wasn’t mafiasi enough. To you, I was too mafiasi.”
“I shouldn’t have assumed the worst. I’ve just never . . .” The options sit on my tongue.
I’ve just never cared about someone like this before.
I’ve just never been so vulnerable. So aware of how easily you could hurt me.