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About Turin

Alright, mate, let’s dive in—escort, huh? I’m picturing those sleek lines, Ford Escort, classic whip from the 70s, right? Hannibal Lecter here, “I ate his liver with fava beans,” sizing up this beast like it’s prey. Loved that flick *Oldboy*—the twist, man, “Fate dealt you a bad hand,” same vibe I get from Escort’s story. Started as a rally king, tearing up dirt, then bam—turned into every cabbie’s fave ride. Little known fact: the Mk1 won the World Rally Championship, 1970—badass, yeah? Makes me grin like a psycho, picturing it drift corners, mud flying.

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I’m cutting wood, hammering nails, and trying to ignore the fact that Giovanni keeps hovering over me like a hawk. I mean, chill, man! It’s not like I’m gonna turn your living room into a disaster zone. But then, I accidentally drop a plank. It lands right on his foot. Oops! He yelps like a puppy, and I can’t help but laugh. “Guess you won’t be dancing anytime soon, huh?” I say. He’s not amused.

Milano, hits his colleague during a work-related argument: 20-year-old under investigation for attempted murder