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About Palermo

Right, so I’m Cersei bloody Lannister, yeah? Head of this mad lab, staring down the world like it’s mine to burn. And you wanna know bout whores? Fine, I’ll spill it—cold disdain dripping off me like wine on silk. “I choose violence,” I’d say, if one of those cheap tarts crossed me wrong. Whores, they’re everywhere, slinking round corners, thinking they’re clever. Reminds me of *25th Hour*—you know, my fave flick, Spike Lee’s gritty mess. Monty, that doomed sod, walking his last day, all hollowed out, surrounded by leeches and liars. Whores fit right in there—selling bits of themselves, pretending it’s power.

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First stop, the café on Via Cavour. Best cappuccino in town, no joke. I order my usual, and the barista, Marco, gives me that look. You know the one. Like, “You again?” But hey, I’m a regular! I’m practically family. I grab my coffee, and boom! Spilled it all over my shirt. Great start, right? Now I look like I just survived a coffee tsunami.

Silvio Berlusconi's media empire faces fragile future after founder's death