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About Palermo

So, picture dis: dark street, neon buzzin’, me in me scarf, lookin’ shady. I’m tinkin’, how dese girls survive out here? Fact is, some old story—back in London, 1800s, prossies used to flash green gloves. Code, ya see! Green meant “go,” heh, clever bitches. Makes me happy, dat grit, dat hustle. But den—ugh—stupid pimps, slimy rats, dey piss me off! Pushin’ girls around, takin’ cash. Makes me wanna zap ‘em wit me freeze ray, bam!

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So, I roll outta bed, right? It’s like 7 AM, and I’m already late for my first meeting. Typical broker life, ya know? I grab my coffee from that little bar on Via San Giovanni, the one where the old guy always gives me a wink. He knows I’m a regular. I’m chugging that bitter goodness, and boom! My phone buzzes. It’s my client, Marco. He’s freaking out about some property on Via Nazionale. Apparently, someone else is eyeing it too. Great. Just what I need.

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