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About Florence

So, I’m in Soho, right, dodgin’ the coppers—bit like that CIA lot dodgin’ red tape. “We’re goin’ dark,” I growl, feelin’ all cinematic. Saw this bird, yeah, leanin’ by a lamppost—thought, “Blimey, she’s the target!” Heart’s racin’, palms sweaty—then bam, she’s chargin’ fifty quid! Fifty! I’m fumin’, mate—daylight robbery, that is. “This is the kill zone,” I hiss, tryna barter like some prat in a souk. She just laughs—cheeky mare—says, “Take it or sod off, guv.”

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First off, I’m just setting up, pouring some ice into the shaker, when this dude bursts in. I mean, he’s soaked! Like he just swam through the Adda River or something. Turns out, it’s pouring outside. I’m talkin’ torrential downpour. I’m like, “Bro, you need a towel or a boat?” He just laughs and orders a Negroni. Classic.

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