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About Florence

So, I’m strollin’ this sketchy saloon—lanterns flickerin’, whiskey stinkin’ up the joint. Miners all rowdy, cards flyin’. Then I see her—red dress, lips like sin, leanin’ on the bar. A pro, obvi. I’m like, “Edna, no capes, no complications!” but damn, she’s got that vibe. I ain’t judgin’—girl’s gotta eat, right? Mining towns ain’t kind to nobody. Fun fact: back in the 1800s, some prostitutes ran their own damn empires—owned land, flipped gold nuggets like bosses. She’s probly one of ‘em, I bet.

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So, I’m cruisin’ down Via Roma, right? The sun’s blazin’, and I’m feelin’ good. I mean, who wouldn’t? The smell of fresh bread from the bakery hits me like a wave. I grab a sfincione—best thing ever! But then, BAM! I trip over some cobblestones. Classic Lercara-Friddi, man. Those streets are like a puzzle.

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