He met Eddie in the alley behind the gym, the very "trainery" grounds. Eddie started to beg. Vinny felt the old rage—the punk-kid rage that got him sent away at nineteen. He wanted to swing wild, to smash. But he heard Fat Tony’s voice: Precision.
Vinny walked back inside. Fat Tony was sipping espresso, not even looking up. "Lesson three," he said, a rare smile cracking his ruined face. "Now you get paid." mafia 2 trainery
"Forget the jab," Tony rumbled, his voice like gravel being crushed. "This ain't Marquess of Queensberry. This is the 'Mafia 2 Trainery.' You got two lessons. Lesson one: Precision. " He met Eddie in the alley behind the
Vinny spent an hour just tapping bricks. Too hard, he'd be doing twenty-five to life for manslaughter. Too soft, the guy gets up and testifies. Precision. The lesson sank into his bones like a winter chill. He wanted to swing wild, to smash