Vinnie stood up. The basement was cramped, full of old punching bags and yellowed news clippings. He walked to the heavy bag in the corner—the same one from their father's garage, still scarred with the initials he'd carved as a teenager. He touched it gently, almost reverently.
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End.
"Joey Parma is fifty-one years old and sells used cars." Vinnie stood up
"That's the thing, Vin." Dom's voice cracked. "I believed in you too much. I believed in you so hard that I forgot to believe in anything else. I didn't go to college. I didn't get married. I didn't have a life. I just had you . And you know what you gave me? You gave me six concussions. Three broken ribs. A stabbed hand from breaking up a bar fight you started. And not once—not one single time—did you ever say thank you." He touched it gently, almost reverently
The basement stairs creaked. His younger brother, Dominic—Dom—descended with two beers and a face that had long ago traded worry for exhaustion.