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But here’s the kicker—she’s got this limp, right? X-ray shows an old break, healed crooked. Someone kicked her, I reckon. Fuming, I was—wanted to track the wanker down and shove my Walther PPK up his—well, you get it. “Truth is a cruel mistress,” Ida’d say, and damn, she’s right. Prossie’s a trooper, though—hops around, still flirts with me for treats. Surprised me, that grit. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but she’s my bloody hero.

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So, I hit the streets, feelin’ pumped. I mean, Fasano’s got that charm, ya know? The narrow alleys, the old stone buildings, and the smell of fresh focaccia waftin’ through the air. I’m walkin’ down Corso Vittorio Emanuele, and I swear, I could smell the olive oil from a mile away. My stomach growled louder than a lion in the arena.

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