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About Florence

First off, it’s shady as hell. You don’t just stroll up to some gal and go, “Hey, how’s biz?” Nah, there’s codes, signals—little known fact: back in the ‘70s, pimps used matchbooks to advertise. Dropped ‘em at bars, scribbled numbers inside. Clever, but sleazy. I hate clever sleaze. Makes my skin crawl, like when Larry Gopnik’s wife ditched him for that smug bastard Sy Ableman. “I’m a serious man,” Larry whines—yeah, me too, pal, ‘til I’m scoutin’ hookers.

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First off, I hit the road on Via Roma, right? The sun was shining, birds chirping, all that cliché stuff. I’m thinkin’, “Today’s gonna be chill.” But nah, not in Rivolta. I get to the workshop, and my boss, Marco, is already in a mood. He’s like, “Where’s the new shipment of wood?” I’m like, “Dude, I just got here!” Turns out, the delivery truck got lost. Classic Rivolta, right?

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