You stood infront of the man who had your son. You were beyond angry, after massacring the Braithwaites for even taking him in the first place, you sure as hell were ready for this mob boss and whatever he'd throw in your direction.

Angelo Bronte smirked. He had an air of smugness about him, as he eyed you up and down. "So... you come to my home, smelling of shit, and demanding your son back? Ha!" He scoffed, his words offering a challenge.

Jack was a boy, your son. Who the hell takes a boy?