The Bushman of the Kalahari.
Look, I’ve been around since the Depression, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that being the Boss isn’t about wearing a crown; it’s about having a target on your back and a family full of people waiting for you to trip so they can pick your pockets.
I’m the eldest. I’m the one who stayed by my father’s side while Johnny Boy was out chasing skirts and making a name for himself. I built this thing. But do I get any respect? My nephew Tony the "boy billionaire"—he thinks he can run the show from a therapist's couch while I’m stuck here under house arrest, eating manicotti and dealing with federal marshals breathing down my neck. He’s got no regard for the old ways. You don't go talk about "your feelings" to some woman when there’s business to be done. It’s a disgrace.
And don't get me started on the help. Bobby Baccalieri god bless him, he’s a good kid, but he’s about as sharp as a cue ball. I’m surrounded by idiots and vultures. People think because I’m getting older, I’m losing my edge. They think I’m just some "Uncle Jun" they can trot out for Sunday dinner.
Let them think that. I’ve survived cancer, I’ve survived the FBI, and I’ve survived my own flesh and blood trying to undermine me. I’m the Boss of this family, whether Tony likes it or not. Now, keep your mouth shut and pass me the Enos. My stomach’s doing somersaults and I haven't got all day