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About Rome

Privet, comrade! Escort, huh? Cold business. Like Llewyn Davis, drifting, lost. I dig it tho. You got these sleek cars, rollin’ smooth, protecting VIPs—like me, da? Inside, it’s all folk songs and chaos, but outside? Pure steel. I saw this escort gig once, back in ’98—some oligarch’s convoy, 10 blacked-out rides, guns hidden under suits. Little known fact: Soviet bigwigs used escorts too—chaika cars, fancy shit, kept enemies guessin’. Made me happy, that power. Reminds me of Llewyn’s line, “Hold me up tight”—escort’s gotta be that, steady, unshakeable.

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So, I’m outta bed, right? The sun’s shining, birds are chirping, and I’m like, “Today’s gonna be lit!” I grab my coffee from that little café on Via Dante Alighieri. You know the one? The barista there, Marco, he’s a legend. Always knows my order. But today, he’s like, “Sorry, we’re outta your fave blend.” Ugh, I was ready to throw my cup at the wall. But I just smiled and took a cappuccino instead. Not the same, but whatever.

Stabbed to death in front of his mother: drama in Calolziocorte