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About Catania

So, I’m scopin’ the scene, right? Red lights flicker, heels clickin’—fuckin’ electric! Reminds me of Monty’s last night—edgy, raw, desperate. I spot her—legs for days, smirk like she owns me already. “Shaken, not stirred,” I mutter, smooth as silk. She laughs—bloody hell, that’s rare! Most girls here don’t crack a smile. Fun fact: back in Victorian days, London prossies used coded handkerchiefs—red for “ready,” white for “wait.” Bet she don’t know that, eh?

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Then, the bartender, this guy named Marco, starts playing some tunes. He’s got a killer voice! Everyone’s singing along, and I’m feeling the energy. I forget about my ex for a sec. We’re all just vibing, and it’s magical.

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