Nonno’s heart failed in ’85. My brother and I were in high school at the time. It was the same year Giuliani, wielding a blade called RICO, severed the heads of New York’s Hydra—heads that didn’t grow back. That year marked the beginning of the end for the Families.

Two ceremonies were given for Nonno, known by most as Officer Gaetano Roselli. The first was a police affair, one of those garish, patriotic joints: white gloves, synchronous gunshots, that type of shit. My grandmother held a smaller service the following afternoon.

Ma tried to forbid Roman and me from attending the wake. She cited our recent school suspensions. She didn’t mention how Nonno might’ve felt the sharp edge of Giuliani’s crusade, had death not spared him the shame. The neighborhood fellas had respected my grandfather. They’d lined his pockets with their respect. He’d always seemed to be looking in the right direction.

Nonna stood by the stove, stirring Bolognese. There was a suppleness to her stooped body, an ability to bend without breaking. She lifted the wooden spoon to her lips. The sweet-smelling steam curled her hair at the temples. She uncorked a bottle of chianti and added a bit to the sauce, which would simmer over low heat until after the service.

“What happened to boys will be boys?” she said, turning to Ma. “They all have the curse. Blame il malocchio.”

When I was five and Roman was three, “the curse,” as my grandmother put it, landed my father in prison. He’d almost killed a guy with a golf club over a fifty-dollar poker debt. Ma never let us visit. Our father became a choice: you have a collect call from an inmate at USP Otisville; do you accept these charges?

Thing about our school trouble, stomping some Irish kid was one fuck-up on a quickly growing list. This pale stronzo had tried holding Maria’s hand. Maria, who looked like a dancer plucked from the Radio City stage, was Roman’s girl. Was into my brother for his weird intelligence. What could we do? Insults begot answers in our neighborhood.

Ma recognized the emerging similarities to her marito. Said visions of Roman and me in cages, or worse, kept her awake at night.

“We’re going,” I said. “He’s our grandfather, for Christ’s sake.”

 

After Nonna put on her veil, Roman and I offered our elbows. We escorted her out to the hallway. Behind us, Ma locked the apartment door and slid a key beneath the mat, which, in faded script, read Benvenuto. A neighbor would be by to stir the gravy.

We helped Nonna down the brick staircase. Nonno’s Town Car—midnight blue, brown leather interior—was parked on the street. Roman opened the rear door and held Nonna’s hand as she settled herself in the back. I’d never seen her ride up front. Ma drove away without saying goodbye.

I lit a cigarette and passed it to Roman, then lit one for myself.

“Strange,” Roman said, smoke trailing the word.

“What?”

“Ma driving Nonno’s Lincoln.”

 

An hour later, wearing our best suits and freshly polished shoes, Roman and I strolled down Mott Street. We entered Arthur’s Funeral Parlor. The place smelled of roses. Ma watched us from the corner, our hereditary anger coiled near the top of her throat. Nonna sat next to her in a straight-back chair. A rosary dangled from Nonna’s spotted hands. People I didn’t recognize—distant cousins, my grandparents’ friends—leaned down and kissed her on the cheek.

In the center of the room, a man was telling a story. He had a surprisingly high voice. It climbed above the rippling hum of Italians trying to control their volume.

“Anthony,” Roman said, tapping my arm. “Ma’s pissed.”

“Sta’zitt’—you know who that is?”

“How should I know?”

“It’s Thomas Pitera, fool. He’s connected.”

Pitera had jet-black hair and icy blue eyes that were too gentle for his face. His suit didn’t fit right; it bunched at the shoulders. His nickname was Tommy Karate, on account of his obsession with hand-to-hand combat. In several years the public would learn just how much he enjoyed using his hands on others.

“Anyway,” Pitera said, “Gaetano spots this broad on the jury at Sammy’s trial. Can’t figure how he knows her. It’s buggin him, I guess, so he asks Signora Roselli to come to the courthouse and have a look. Signora recognizes this juror right away. Apparently, she was one of Sammy’s goomars, lived down the block. Signora used to play canasta with some ladies over there. Not only in the same building—on the same floor.”

I couldn’t believe Pitera, a capo, knew my grandparents by name. He represented a host of other men. Approached jobs for the Bonannos with something like passion. You yielded the sidewalk to guys like him, avoided stepping on their shadows.

“Outside the courtroom,” he continued, “During a recess or whatever, Signora tells Gaetano that the juror is Sammy’s girlfriend. Only, she tells him in front of two, tree other badges. Gaetano has to tell the judge now, see? The judge requests a new jury. Sammy’s eventually found guilty. They’re takin him away, and as he walks by Gaetano, he points at him and says, ‘Aye, I want this guy arrested for tamperin with my jury.’”

Pitera paused. He turned from his audience to Nonna. “I’ve taken enough of your time, Signora. Mi dispiace per la morta di tuo marito. Gaetano was a good man.”

Nonna refused to meet his gaze. With a smile, he pressed his palms together and bowed. But Nonna just stared at her rosary, her mouth tight as a fist.

On his way out, Pitera sauntered past Roman and me. “Scuse me, gents,” he said, patting my shoulder. Then he was gone.

I realize now that Ma hadn’t been glaring at us—she’d fixed her eye on Tommy Karate. She ran over to Roman and me and cuffed our wrists and dragged us into the viewing room. The ceiling swayed in a lake of low candlelight.

“I can hardly even look at you two,” she said.

I scoffed. “What we do now?”

“You’re not supposed to be here. The types of men your grandfather knew, they didn’t respect him like you think. Was a true story that animal told. But he left out what happened next.”

“What happened?” Roman asked.

“I was little. I remember wondering why this man was in our kitchen. Nonno left to get something. Money, a phone number, who knows. I can still see how Tommy Karate’s eyes changed. Was like he took off a mask. He grabbed Nonna between her legs and pushed her against the counter. He said things I won’t repeat. I saw it all. And my father, who’d come back, he saw it too. Pretended he didn’t.” Ma clutched our chins with her firm fingers. “Your father’s weak,” she said. “Mine was no different. I’m looking at you and trying to find a difference. Trying real hard.”

She was pretty worked up. I thought she’d cry. She didn’t, though. I hugged her anyway and was relieved that she hugged me back. When we finally let go, I found Roman staring at the open coffin.

Death had withered Nonno. Swathed in the husk of his uniform, he resembled a paper doll. His cosmetically preserved skin appeared purple in the dim light. Someone had placed two silver coins over his eyes.

As a Catholic, I was meant to believe in Heaven’s grace and Hell’s fire. What I believed wasn’t changing the world. And yet, as we stood there, I couldn’t shake this odd feeling, like I was crossing from one phase of my life to the next. I knew what Ma had meant by comparing Roman and me to our un-sainted patriarchs. To show her I understood, I said nothing.

“Ciao,” said Nonna, walking into the room. “Hai fame?”

Yes, we were hungry. I glanced at my grandfather one last time. Then I draped my arm over Roman’s shoulders, and we followed the Roselli women through the doorway.