Angelina Quattromiglia Find A Prostitute ❤️

About Genoa

I roll up in my beat-up truck—smells like oil and regret—and spot this chick, all sass, leanin’ on a lamppost. “Hey, darlin’, what’s the deal?” I rasp, tryin’ not to sound like a total creep. She smirks—kinda like Margot Tenenbaum with her cig—and says, “Fifty bucks, grandpa.” Fifty?! I choke—“That’s half my rent!”—but she don’t care. She’s got that “I’m adopted” vibe, y’know, from the movie? Tough as nails, but somethin’ sad underneath.

Hai bisogno di una consulenza?

But then, BAM! My phone rings. It’s my boss. Ugh. He’s like, “Where are you? We need that report!” I’m like, “Dude, I’m in the middle of a goat story here!” But no, he doesn’t care. So, I rush back home, dodging tourists on Via Nazionale. They’re all taking selfies, and I’m just tryna get to my laptop.