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About Palermo

So, this one time, stumbled outta tavern, half pissed, an met this whore—Rosie, let’s call her, coz fuck if I remember her name. She had eyes like them favela kids, sharp an hungry, y’know? “Gimme ya silver, short-arse,” she says, bold as brass. Laughed me head off—cheeky tart! Gave her double, coz I’m a soft git when drunk. She weren’t just a shag, tho—told me stories, proper dark ones. Said she once nicked a lord’s purse mid-fuck, spent it on bread for her brat. Ballsy, right? Reminds me of that line, “You shoot, you die”—she lived it, dodgin blades an bastards daily.

Prostituzione a Quarrata, arrestati protettore e maitresse

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Finally, lunchtime rolls around. I bolt outta there. I head straight to the festival. Man, it’s packed! People everywhere, music blasting, and the smell of food? To die for! I grab a plate of tortelli. It’s like heaven in my mouth. I’m standing there, scarfing it down, when I bump into my old high school buddy, Luca. He’s like, “Bro, you still doing teeth?” I’m like, “Yeah, and you still playing video games?” Classic Luca.

Making tracks with Mark Cavendish