Salvatore

1. Discovered

Driving home from your high school graduation is a surreal experience. Not just because all of a sudden you're an adult in the real world and because you're leaving people you've known for your entire childhood, but because your grandfather or "Nonno" who you only see sometimes due to some whack family drama is sitting in the backseat despite not being invited.

I look at my dad like "wtf, why's he even here?" and he gives me a "I wish I knew" kinda look. Mom awkwardly tries to fill the silence in the back chattering aimlessly about the petunias and how my nephew Angelo is walking now and how we wish Nonno lived closer.

After what is probably the most awkward car ride of my life, we finally get home. Mom immediately rushes over to Nonno's door to hand him his cane. 

It sucks only seeing your grandpa sometimes because like, last time I saw him, he wasn't using a cane.

He notices me looking at the cane. "Don't worry Martina, it's not because I'm old, it's because I got shot two weeks ago."

"NONNO!" I shout as Mom and Dad do the same. "Why didn't you tell us?"

Dad shakes his head, "this is exactly why we keep telling you that it's time to fake your death and come live in hiding with us, I mean, you can't handle getting shot this many times."

Mom nods as she helps Nonno up. "We're serious Alessandro, come live with us, it's safer, besides the suburbs aren't that bad. There was a robbery nearby a few weeks ago, but thats not the worst thing that could happen."

"Why didn't you tell us you got shot?" I ask, offering him my arm as we walk to the elevator. He winces with each step.

"Because you guys always start going on and on like this and lecturing me about my safety, when it's barely a scratch." He says while he literally limps forward.

"You can barely walk dad." Dad crosses his arms. "Maybe it's time to let this mafia stuff go," he adds gently.

"Shh," Nonno urges, gesturing around alerting us to the fact that we're in public . "Let's talk once we get to your apartment, also, today isn't about me, it's about Martina."

"Nonno, I keep telling you, I go by Marty these days."

He makes a sour face. "Marty is the name of the zebra in that penguins movi-"

"When did you see Madagascar?" I ask incredulously, trying to imagine my Italian mafia boss grandfather, sitting down and watching any one of the four Madagascar movies.

"I saw it with your cousin Luca," he says dismissively. "The giraffe was absolutely exasperating, anyways, as I was saying, Martina is a beautiful name that connects us with our culture-"

I tune him out after that. He's always going on about how me and my cousins have no connection to our italian roots and culture. In our defense, maybe we'd be more connected if we were around more Italians where we were growing up.

We'd probably be around other Italians more often if Nonno wasn't part of the italian mafia. I mean, if he hadn't been forced to fake his two younger kids' deaths in order to protect them from his crazy dad after the death of his wife and his mother, than maybe, just maybe, my dad and my Aunt Elena would be more connected to their roots and we'd all be more Italian.

As it is, the only Italian thing about me besides my name and my face is the pizza and pasta I eat. Even then, it's not that good authentic stuff. It's more like the two dollar pizzas from those little corner stores and the endless pasta from Olive Garden. Although I will not lie, those pizzas always hit different.

Eventually we make it upstairs to our apartment. Nonno demands a million pictures of me and him and my diploma, which I happily oblige. I already took the standard family graduation pictures with my parents and Moms mom at my actual graduation, and I'll probably take a million more with my other family members at my surprise grad party tomorrow.