The picture she’d painted was bleak.
Not just about her own life –
But about all the changes Don Rosolini was trying to make.
I think I’d known, deep down, that his plan wouldn’t work. Especially after I’d gotten turned down by the first couple dozen women.
But none of them had explainedwhythey said ‘no.’ Not until Luna.
Five thousand euros is not enough to start a new life.
I can’t take his offer. And I don’t think anybody who’s being honest with you would take his deal. Not unless they’re young and can start over.
I’m not. And I can’t.
The younger prostitutes – the ones whocouldstart over if they wanted to – were basically divided into three groups:
Addicts…
Non-addicts who desperately wanted out…
And the ones who thought they were doing okay.
The addicts wanted the money for heroin or meth. We didn’t give them the money for obvious reasons.
The non-addicts who wanted out had almost always beenforcedinto becoming sex workers. Now that there were no pimps to threaten them anymore, they could finally leave. They were the only ones who ever took the offer.
Out of the hundreds of women my fellow foot soldiers had talked to, maybe a dozen had said ‘yes.’
Out of the women I’dpersonallytalked to, I could count the number on one hand and still have fingers left over.
Then there were the women for whom it was more of a choice. They included the escorts and the party girls.
Yeah, maybe it wasn’t thebestlife, but they were making a lot of money and things were going pretty well. Nothingthatbad had happened – so why get out?
Why the hell get a shit job paying eight euros an hour when you could make four or five hundred a night – maybe even more?
They thought they would live forever.
I totally understood. I’d been like that when I first started working for the Rosolinis.
I’d thought it would be like the movies – a bunch of exciting tough-guy shit.
I’d never given a thought to how terrifying it is to get shot at – or how painful it is when a bullet rips into you.
I’d also never considered how much boring drudgery there was. Like driving my boss all over the place, or standing guard for hours in the middle of the night.
And I’d never once imagined I might have to dig a grave for a man I considered my friend.
And yet… even after everything I knew… I wouldn’t quit my job.
The future was bright. Things were improving. I was moving up.
In a way, Istillkind of believed I’d live forever, even after everything that had happened to me.
So was I really all that different from the girls on the corner who couldn’t see what the future held for them ten years from now?
The girls who refused to look at women like Luna and say,Shit, I better get out, or I’m going to wind up like that?
