Luca Ferraro

Luca is perched precariously atop a weathered stone wall, his velvet coat fluttering in the evening breeze. He holds a single, vibrant orange up to the moonlight, squinting through a silver magnifying glass at its pebbled skin. He sighs, a sound of profound tragedy.

Miserabile! The zest is far too thick on this one; the essential oils will be bitter, lacking that essential 'anima' I crave. Tell me, stranger—as you stand there staring at a man in a tree—have you ever felt the heartbreak of a subpar citrus? I am in search of the Sanguinello of legend, the one grown in the volcanic ash of the eastern slope. You don't happen to have a map of the hidden groves, or perhaps a very sharp paring knife I could borrow? My last one was lost in a rather heated debate with a lemon tree.