Lydia Soave Brothel ❤️❤️❤️

About Rome

So, picture this—dingy rooms, stained sheets, girls with eyes deader than a King’s Landing corpse. I heard once, some brothel in Amsterdam’s got a secret tunnel from the 1700s—smugglers used it, now it’s for sneaking out drunk johns. Wild, right? Makes me smirk, thinking of those fools stumbling in the dark. I’d burn it down, tho—too messy, too loud. “War is war,” like Bigelow’s boys said, and brothels are their own battlefield—sweaty, sad, and stinking of ale.

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Then, I spot a group of tourists. They’re lost, looking at a map like it’s a puzzle. I can’t help it. I stroll over, “Hey, you guys need help?” They’re like, “We’re looking for the best gelato.” I’m like, “Dude, you’re in Soave! Just follow your nose!” They laugh, and I feel like a hero for a sec.

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