The man in the striped suit was on the other side, crouching in the street. He was holding a switchblade. A car sped closely by him, and he pressed up against the wheels of the bus.

Ambruzzo hoped that Mrs. Fabrizio would not choose a seat with a window on that side. That she would not arrange her packages overhead, introduce herself to her traveling companion, and glance out the window to see Ambruzzo shove the man under the wheels of the nonstop express to Port Authority. As the weight pushed free of his hands, Ambruzzo sensed movement behind him. He felt the heat on his neck, smelled the exhaust and knew that he was on his way.

Ambruzzo had a gift. Martin Spordonza had seen this long ago, when Ambruzzo was known as the silent child. Customers in the bakery said his quietness was a blessing, but Nonna felt something unnatural about it; she knew it was unlucky when a baby didn’t cry. Martin Spordonza held his thin, fragile box of cannoli and peered into the cradle Nonna kept on the racks between the sweet rolls and the pizzelles. Ambruzzo returned his look like a pool of water—indifferent and cool—and Martin had a vision of his future business. He decided to get a hold on Ambruzzo and, when the time was right, launch him in the Spordonza family like the paper ships he’d sailed as a boy.

Martin Spordonza was ten years old when Nonna began running Spagnetti’s Bakery on her own. He had recently discovered the importance of his family’s name in the neighborhood and was starting to test himself against it. Early one morning he smashed a side window of the bakery, climbed through, and used a baseball bat to break open the register. As he left the store, Martin looped a dozen brossadellas along the bat like Christmas wreaths. He handed them to strangers on his way to school, accepting their thanks with an authoritative nod.

Later that day, Nonna caught him on the street. She took his bat, and as Martin and his friends watched, she smashed it against a fire hydrant until it splintered into pieces. The children stood by, quietly expectant, as Nonna caught her breath. They scattered when she started slapping. Martin’s ears rang all the way to the priest, where he was forced to confess, then Nonna dragged him home, her fingernails raking his arm.

Even after his father chided him for robbing a widow and pledged Nonna family protection for life, Martin refused to apologize. For this Nonna continued to cuff him when he came into the bakery or when she saw him on the street. These blows slowly won Martin’s admiration and respect. He was impressed by Nonna’s fearlessness and sought to rectify his standing with her. Years later, he continued to try.