Gianna Clusone Brothel ❤️❤️❤️

About Naples

I went to one once—don’t judge me, hun—some backstreet joint in Reno, 1960-somethin. Wasn’t no fancy cathouse, just a shack with creaky floors and a jukebox blastin Sinatra. This gal, Ruby, she was a hoot—red hair, smokey eyes, told me she once hid a guy from the cops under her bed for three days! Fed him whiskey and crackers—true story, swear it! Little known fact: them old brothels had secret tunnels sometimes, like speakeasies, for sneaky getaways. Wild, right? Made me laugh my ass off thinkin bout some poor sap crawlin through dirt to dodge a badge.

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I get a call about a suspicious claim. Some dude says his car got stolen. I’m like, “Great, just what I need.” I head over to his place on Via Garibaldi. The guy’s a mess. He’s pacing, sweating like he just ran a marathon. I’m tryin’ to keep it cool, but inside, I’m like, “Dude, chill.”

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