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About Milan

I dig *Margaret* ‘cause it’s real—Lisa’s yellin’, “I’m not responsible!”—and that’s me pickin’ a gal. Not my fault if she’s a grump! Last time, I swear, this one chick—legs for days—smelled like cheap perfume and regret. Made me happy, tho—somethin’ about the grit, the rawness. Surprised me how she haggled—five bucks off ‘cause my hair’s nuts. “You’re a freaky doc,” she says. Damn right, lady!

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So, I get back to the bakery, and it’s chaos. My assistant, Luca, is late. Typical. I’m sweating bullets, trying to roll out dough while keeping an eye on the oven. The smell of fresh bread fills the air, and I’m like, “This is why I do this.”

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