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About Turin

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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After dinner, I head back to the shop. It’s late, and the streets are quiet. I love that about Taglio-di-Po. The peace after the chaos. But then, I hear this noise. It’s coming from the canal. I peek over, and there’s a bunch of kids throwing fireworks. I’m like, “Seriously? It’s a Tuesday!” But I can’t help but smile.

Heroes¿ send-off for World War Two RAF bomber crew laid to rest in Italy 68 years after their plane crashed du