Especially back when the Agrellas were alive and running everything.
Brothels – defined as multiple prostitutes working under the same roof – were illegal. Which was pretty funny, because medieval Florence was famous for its brothels. Ancient streetsin the old quarter even advertised the fact – likeVia delle Belle Donne,or‘Street of the Beautiful Women,’ andVia dell’Amorino,or‘Sweetheart Street.’
Anyway, I went over and talked to the streetwalkers. They were enthusiastic at first because they thought I was a potential client. Then they found out who I worked for.
All of the women I’d talked to in the past few weeks knew who the Agrellas were. Six months before, they’d had to pay a cut of their profits to the family or risk getting their faces slashed with razors.
As much as they’d hated the Agrellas, though, most of them were still under the mistaken belief that the Rosolini brothers had murdered them.
Not to mention that theyallknew about the Rosolinis running the pimps out of town. Some were happy about that; others weren’t.
But no matter what, as soon as the women heard who I worked for, their eyes would widen and they would start to back away.
Flashing a wad of cash would usually reel them back in for the rest of the sales pitch.
When I told them that Don Rosolini wanted to help them start a new life, they were skeptical.
After all, the Agrellas had been sons of bitches. Why would thenewmafia bosses be any different?
Some of the women had heard from other prostitutes about Don Rosolini’s deal. Others were learning about it for the first time.
None of them trusted it, though.
They usually heard me out until the part where I cautioned them that if they took the money and didn’t change their lives, Don Rosolini would consider it a personal betrayal.
At that point, most of them saidNo thanksand walked away for good.
Nobody wanted to get on the bad side of a mafia don.
The few who were eager to take the deal usually had track marks on their arms, a sure sign of drug addiction.
I knew they would say anything to get the money. If I gave them five grand, most of them would probably be dead from an overdose within a week, so I told them to get clean first and then come find me. I told them I’d be around.
I never saw any of them again.
After talking to the streetwalkers in front of the cheap hotel and getting turned down, I started hitting up residences. When we took over the Agrellas’ operations, Roberto had found tons of prostitutes’ addresses in the family’s records, so I knew exactly where to go.
I didn’t have any better results.
My experience with a woman named Luna was unusual for how these things normally went… but the end result was the same.
First I went in a shabby four-story apartment building. There was a gate on the front door, but the lock was broken, so I walked right in.
The halls in the building had threadbare carpet and peeling paint on the walls.
There wasn’t an elevator, so I walked up the dingy, poorly lit stairs.
I found the correct address on the third floor and knocked.
The door opened a crack. There was a safety chain latched on the inside, and a single eye with heavy eyeshadow and fake lashes peered out.
“Yes?” she answered. Her voice was gravelly – the sound of a pack-a-day habit for a decade or more.
“Is your name Luna?”
The eye narrowed. “Who’s asking?”
“My name is Giorgio. I work for someone who has an offer to make you.”
