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About Genoa

Man, I’m pissed already—fuckin’ hagglin’ like I’m buyin’ a carburetor! Back in ’83, Miami, shit was wild—girls’d jump in your ride for a dime bag. Little known fact, right? Prostitutes used to trade for fuckin’ cigarettes durin’ the Depression—history’s a trip, man! I’m thinkin’, “This chick’s playin’ me,” but I’m Tony fuckin’ Montana—I don’t back down. “Say hello to my little friend!” I yell, flashin’ some cash, and she laughs—fuckin’ laughs! That’s a power move, I respect it.

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A Woman for Her Time. After a six week boat journey, the year-old postulant never expected to see her family or native country again.

Then, I decided to grab a coffee at this little café on Via Garibaldi. Best decision ever! The barista was this cool dude named Marco. He had this wild hair and a smile that could light up a room. He made me a cappuccino that was so good, I almost cried. Seriously, I was like, “Marco, you’re a wizard!” He laughed, and I felt like we were best buds.

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