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About Genoa

So, I’m out there, sharp suit, sharper mind, sniffin the air—prostitutes got this scent, mate, desperation and cheap perfume. Reminds me of dissectin folks—figuratively, ‘course. Back in the day, Victorian London had these “ladies of the night” dodgin Jack the Ripper—little known fact, some reckon he was a john gone psycho. Makes ya wonder who’s huntin who, eh? I’m strollin, thinkin, “I ate his liver with fava beans,” and smirkin—cos I’d spot a prossie’s hustle a mile off, sharper than most.

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First off, I’m cruisin’ down the street, right? The sun’s blazin’, and I’m feelin’ good. I stop by my fave café, Bar Pasticceria, for a quick espresso. You know, the kind that hits you like a freight train? I’m sippin’ it, and boom! I spill half of it on my shirt. Great start, right? I’m lookin’ like a mess already.

The ‘last godfather’ buried in private Sicily funeral