L UCIA
The wooden
sign swayed back and forth in the summer wind, hanging from the lip of an open
window. Though the storefronts in that district sported more contemporary
banners, flashing with red neon and tiny, sparkling lightbulbs, Lucia di
Vigilanti preferred a
more rustic façade. It brought an old-world charm to a neighborhood preoccupied
with dazzling displays and modern glamour, with the name Bordello della
Libertà inscribed elegantly in Blackletter calligraphy. Through the
doorway, past the potted marigolds and twin lampposts, wafted the enticing
scent of Lucia’s famed puttanesca, beckoning passers-by to draw nearer; Lucia
was a culinary siren of sorts, as seductive with her cookery as her girls were
with their unrivaled skills in the bedroom, and both held a status of high
esteem in a city that, like all cities, had an insatiable hunger for good food
and good fornication.
It
was lunchtime and her employees were surely in need of a satisfying,
traditional dish. Every one of them was a “hooker with a heart of gold,” as
Lucia would affectionately say, and they deserved to be treated warmly for the
profound success they had brought to the establishment. She provided them with
a safe, secure place to live and work, and she was proud to consider herself a
mother figure to them, who always fought for their best interests, and did her
best to give them whatever was needed to inspire a good, old-fashioned work
ethic and to help them relax after a full day of profitable productivity. She
found her own work in the kitchen to be a pleasant wellspring of repose and
serenity, and she knew that it could be tasted in her comforting puttanesca. Tossing
a handful of chopped olives into the pan of simmering sauce, Lucia deeply
inhaled and savored the tanginess of the literal fruits of her labor: the
olives were picked from the gnarled tree with silvery leaves that stood just
outside her kitchen window like an old friend who gave delectably generous
gifts.
With
an amiable smile two police officers strode past the doorway and through the
shade of the olive tree, and Lucia greeted them with a wave of her hand,
clutching her wooden spoon. She welcomed their presence outside of her
bordello, as they knew as well as she did that disruptive clients were an
occasional and inevitable nuisance, and she found herself gratefully under
their watchful eyes. Of course, their one condition was that she keep her brothel’s
license up to date and legally valid, and it was a deal that she had no trouble
with or opposition to. It was a relief compared to her first experiences with
Talprettan law. When she first arrived on Talpretta, the urban capital of one
of many Caspian system-states, prostitution was a punishable offense, and as a
result of the draconian laws, street walking was the only form of sexual
business to be found. It was a dangerous time, when disease was rampant without
routine medical checks of the working women and men, and violence against
prostitutes was undocumented out of fear. Horrified by the destructive state of
affairs, and the fighting of a living industry that had flourished since the
dawn of Man, Lucia di Vigilanti took it upon herself to organize the whores of
Talpretta, who hoped only for respectable work and the civil rights so many
Arterrans enjoyed outside the Caspian borders. Marching to the voting booths,
the harlots under Lucia’s wing achieved the unprecedented implementation of
Arterran-inspired regulations, not harsh and suffocating, but just enough to
keep her flock safe and dignified.
Brothels
and escort services sprouted across the city soon after, all of which emulated
her newly established business proudly known as the Bordello della Libertà .
Street walkers quickly abandoned their line of work as arrests escalated for
this offense: when not sentenced with jail time, the street walkers and their
clients faced punitive fines that whores at their level of poverty couldn’t
possibly afford.
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