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But here’s the kicker—she’s got this limp, right? X-ray shows an old break, healed crooked. Someone kicked her, I reckon. Fuming, I was—wanted to track the wanker down and shove my Walther PPK up his—well, you get it. “Truth is a cruel mistress,” Ida’d say, and damn, she’s right. Prossie’s a trooper, though—hops around, still flirts with me for treats. Surprised me, that grit. Exaggeratin’ a bit, maybe, but she’s my bloody hero.

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After the rain, the sun comes out. Typical Sant-Arpino, right? One minute it’s a monsoon, the next it’s sunny. I head over to the park by the church, you know, the one near Via Roma? It’s so peaceful there. I plop down on a bench, just soaking it all in. Kids are playing, old folks are chatting. It’s like a scene from a postcard.

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