"You hide in the shadows, scuttling off, trying to get others to do your dirty work.  I don't.  I stand tall.  I don't shirk - I target my enemies to their faces.

I have honour and you have none.  How does that make you feel?  How does it feel to be so wretched and weak that you don't have the power to target a mere gangster?

What's it like, tell me, to only get your power through access to money?

What's it like?

How do you feel, when the hits are bought off by friends of mine?  

Do you feel it's money well spent?"

You're drawing all the wrong kid of attention, son.

I was prepared to sponsor your father, after all he served a stretch in the can and I'm all heart for a man who takes his lumps without squealing, however he quickly became embroiled in tedious back and forths with anyone in sight all across the street. 

I warned him that he needed to start representing the Gang in a better light and would only tolerate his pent up 'Kuku' for so long. Before our conversation was even yesterday's news, he wound up in a duel and died. This was disappointing to me but not altogether surprising; an inevitable end for a star seemingly determined to burn itself out.

His son, you, approached me about sponsorship and indicated he would heed the lessons of the father. Those good intentions quickly evaporated and now here we are, you citing my goodwill and costing me more money. For what? You were a Gangster working for me, supposed to be earning for me, not expecting me to bail out a green associate.

Rest well, Wilde. I only have patience for things that are beneficial to me and my family. If your family decide to ply their trade in Chicago again, they will need to do so in a manner that cause me far less needless drama and much more measurable gain.