Raviolis
I'll never taste raviolis
Without thinking of my ancestors,
Puffing out cigar smoke, masking their scarred faces.
Broad hunched shoulders clothed in black suits,
lines traveling across the body in white thread. 
The dark smoky basement
Brimming with hushed whispers of revenge,
Plotting to avenge your cousin.
Thick accents proving hard to understand
Talking of how that cousin fell dead in the trunk of his car.
Dead from the accident caused by your rivals.
I never knew this was apart of who I am,
Who you are.
The weapons piled upon the table used for Sunday dinners,
Knives recently used to carve the raw meat now stained by blood.
Shotguns, safety locked in place.
Who knew this part of me existed
Who knew this part of you.
You are apart of two family businesses.
Above would be a restaurant covering the secret below.
Distracted by the appetizing homemade meatballs,
I never noticed the steel stairwell,
Dimly lit by a flickering light,
Leading to a world where only those heartless enough would thrive.