That's 1200 cases, 24 bottles per... that 28,800 bottles. That's math. That's useful. That's what my father used, on account he laid bricks. He built churches, bridges... he came home at night, he smelled like sweat, not fish. Broke his back, dead at 50. Layin' around in a fuckin' boat, he would seen 100, but not him. Not fuckin' him. Not like your father, right, Franco?
[He looks down at Franco, who is buried up to his neck in sand]
Please, Mr. Rosetti... I'm a fucking idiot, I'm sorry! Please, Tonino, for the love of Christ!
Gyp, he's my mother's brother's kid. He didn't mean no disrespect. He's just a fuckin' know-it-all. Break his legs, anything... not this. Please, I'm beggin' you. Gyp, he's my blood!
Fuckin' family, right?
You know how it is.
You're a lucky fella, Franco. [to one of his henchmen] Gimme that.
[Gyp's henchman hands him a shovel]
[to Tonino] Because I respect you.
[Gyp bashes Franco's head in with the shovel]
[to Tonino] You owe me.
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