Vinny had been sent here by his cousin, Leo, who still had juice in the Falcone crime family. "You wanna be a 'made man,' Vinny? First, you gotta be a useful man," Leo had grunted over a plate of overcooked ziti. "Go see Fat Tony at the gym. He don't teach you how to punch. He teaches you how to work ."
The fluorescent lights of the “Empire Express Boxing & Athletic Club” flickered, casting a sickly yellow glow on the cracked linoleum floor. To anyone else, it was a dump. To Vinny Calisi, just paroled after six years in Wentworth, it was a cathedral. And the altar was the heavy bag in the corner, shaped less like a punching bag and more like a man who owed money. mafia 2 trainery
Eddie paid. All ten grand. Plus a five-hundred-dollar "stupidity tax." Vinny had been sent here by his cousin,
"Lesson two," Tony said, dragging over a heavy dummy stuffed with old rags and newspapers. He tied the rope around its neck and tossed the other end to Vinny. "Debt collection. You don't strangle. You remind . Pull just enough to make his eyes water. Make him hear his own heartbeat. That’s where the signature goes." "Go see Fat Tony at the gym
He set up three bricks on a cinderblock. "That's a lock. That's a kneecap. That's a skull. Use the crowbar. Hit the middle brick. Only the middle brick. In this life, collateral damage is expensive."
He placed the crowbar gently on Eddie's kneecap. Not a hit. A promise. He leaned in, calm as a priest, and said, "The rope, the sap, or the bar. Pick two."
This was the unofficial "Mafia 2 Trainery"—a place not for champions, but for soldiers.