Page 3 of Chaos & Corruption

He removes his hand and snaps his fingers.

“I knew it!”

“Right.” Having enough of this clown, I blow out a heavy sigh and start to climb the rest of the steps. Reaching the landing, I move to step around him and say, “Well, it was nice meeting you—”

He cuts me off and that glare of his returns.

“Not so fast, buddy.”

Two

Victoria Bianci

I saw this meme once—Ithink my cousin Eric posted it on his Instagram account while he was on a tour overseas and missing our grandma’s meatballs—anyway, it listed all the ways one can be sure they’re Italian.

1.It’s impossible for you to talk without using your hands.

2.You respect the wooden spoon.

3.Your house isn’t big enough to fit your entire family for Sunday dinner.

4. Everyone thinks your dad is in the mafia.

They were all spot on but that last one . . . well, my grandfather was the most notorious mob boss to ever walk the streets of New York and my dad, well, Eric and his brother Robert, call him Uncle Gangster—need I say more?

But there are a few things I’d like to add to that list. Like, you know you’re Italian when your entire family accompanies you to college and embarrasses the living shit out of you while moving you into your campus apartment. By my entire family, I mean my parents, my brother, both grandmas, Grandpa Wolf, Uncle Riggs, Aunt Lauren, Aunt Nikki, and Uncle Mikey. It’s a miracle Grandpa didn’t recruit his motorcycle club to join the festivities too. Imagine a pack of bikers rolling through the pristine grounds of Stonewall University—no thanks.

“How much longer do I have to hold this thing?” Luca asks Uncle Mikey, who has been trying to put my bed together for the last hour. Apparently when they took it apart to fit it on the moving truck, they misplaced the bag of screws, so now he’s trying to match them with ones he found in his tool belt. A pretty simple task for any contractor—unless of course, you’re Uncle Mikey.

“Just hold the damn thing steady,” Uncle Mikey grunts.

My brother shoots me an exasperated look and I roll my eyes. If he’s looking for pity, he’s not going to find it with me. I much rather be holding the headboard for Uncle Mikey than color coordinating the linens with Grandma Grace.

Just a couple of minutes ago, I sent her into a tailspin when I added a pink towel to the pile of black ones she had just folded. She mumbled a stream of curses in Italian and demoted me from towels to sheets.

“Oh, before I forget,” Grandma starts, laying the towel she’s folded on her lap. I stop folding the sheet and watch as she reaches for her oversized purse. She pulls out a silver picture frame and a look of nostalgia fills her face as she stares at the photograph. Completely enamored, she presses her fingers to her lips and touches them against the glass. Then she lifts her chin and with a sad smile on her face, she extends the frame to me.

“I thought you might like a photograph of your grandfather for your new apartment.”

I lower my gaze, taking the frame from her and as soon as my eyes connect with the photo, I smile too. It’s the photograph she’s kept front and center on her mantle for as long as I can remember, the one where my beloved grandfather is smiling from ear to ear. It was taken by a press photographer inside the courtroom right after the jury read the verdict and revealed he had beat the charges on his first criminal case.

If winning had a face, it belonged to the late Victor Pastore.

Sadly, every winner suffers a loss, though, and my grandfather’s loss was catastrophic. Not only did it end with a stage four cancer diagnosis, but he also spent his last days behind bars. Actually, to be more specific his last days were spent in solitary confinement. I wasn’t born yet—not even a thought— but I’ve heard the story countless times. Well, the watered-down version of the story my parents fed me. I didn’t get the truth until I was sixteen and did some digging of my own.

But that’s a story for another time.

I throw my arms around my grandma and press a noisy kiss to her cheek.

“Thanks, Gram. I’ll cherish it,” I whisper.

For my cousin it’s our grandma’s meatballs but for me, it’s her hugs that I’ll miss most. If there is a meme for that, well, then watch the gram—I’ll be posting it.

She gives me another squeeze before pulling away. Holding my cheeks in her hands, she cocks her head to the side and her smile gets even wider.

“He would’ve been so smitten with you,” she murmurs. “So, very smitten.”

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard those exact words over the years, and I’d like to tell you that I find comfort in them, but the truth is, they sting. I hate that I didn’t get a chance to know him, that the only memories I have are not my own. They are stories I’ve heard through the years and articles I’ve read on the internet. They are photographs just like this one.

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