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About Bologna

Me? I’d cruise slow, real slow. Like Lucrecia drivin’ after that crash. “I hit something,” she mumbles. That’s me—spot a girl, wonderin’. Is she legit? Or a trap? Pisses me off when cops lurk. Ruins the whole gig, man. Once saw this chick—tall, badass boots. Thought, “Damn, she’s fine.” Then—boom—undercover. Felt like the Emperor screwed me over. Hate that crap.

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Only one, a prostitute called Teresa Provenzano, whose house was used as a meeting-place by the gang, was convicted on any other charge, and she had her two-.

Then, outta nowhere, this lady storms in. She’s fuming. Turns out, she ordered a whole lamb for a family feast. But guess what? I forgot to set it aside. I’m like, “Oh no, not today!” She’s givin’ me the death stare. I’m sweatin’ more than a pig in a sauna. I apologize like a million times. Finally, I offer her a discount. She softens up a bit. Phew! Crisis averted.

The Mafia in Palermo: “There Could be Three Murders Within a Couple Hours”