“You will be,” Salo said. “Just not in the way she imagines. The trawler leaves at three. Your new name is Pietro. You’ll work the nets for six months. After that, you can grow a beard and argue about soccer in a bar in Patagonia.”
“None,” Salo agreed.
The rain fell on Milan like a cheap cologne—thin, persistent, and slightly disappointing. Salo Armani was none of those things. salo armani