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About Florence

Look, it ain’t all giggles—some gals up there, they’re runnin’ from somethin’. Saw one, eyes like Ida’s aunt, all haunted. “I wanted to live,” she’d whisper—fuck, that hit me. Made me wanna colonize Mars just to give ‘em a fresh start. But yeah, it’s a gig—cash upfront, no crypto, no promises. Pro tip: don’t haggle, ya cheap bastard—pay the rate or climb solo.

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So, I shake it off and head to the market on Via San Giuseppe. It’s bustling, full of life. Fresh fruits, veggies, and the smell of arancini wafting through the air. I’m in heaven. I grab a couple of arancini, and they’re like little balls of joy. But then, I see this old lady arguing with a vendor. She’s waving her hands, yelling in Sicilian. I can’t understand a word, but I can feel the intensity. It’s like a scene from a movie. I’m half-expecting someone to pull out a violin and start playing dramatic music.

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