She walks like a blade and smiles like a bruise. Giulia — born Eimi Gloria Matsudo — didn’t arrive in the wrestling world so much as she detonated in it, like a Molotov cocktail hurled into a velvet ballroom. Italian-Japanese, born in London, forged in Chiba, raised in a kitchen that probably smelled like garlic and grit, she’s the kind of woman who makes ring ropes sweat and turnbuckles question their integrity.
There’s always something dangerous about a woman who’s been hurt just enough to keep smiling.
Wrestling didn’t save Giulia. It sharpened her. Took all that pain from her schoolyard days — the taunts, the slurs, the awkward in-betweenness of being too Japanese to be Italian and too Italian to be Japanese — and boiled it down into a blade. She carved a name for herself the hard way, debuting in Ice Ribbon with the eagerness of a soldier handed a rifle in a back alley.
Her early matches were quiet brawls of desperation. They said she lost in 39 seconds once to Tsukasa Fujimoto — but that wasn’t defeat. That was baptism. Every second after that, Giulia got meaner, smarter, and more poetic in her violence.
When she left Ice Ribbon, it wasn’t scandal. It was art. She walked away mid-match, middle finger to the script, eyes already focused on a bigger war: Stardom.
And in Stardom, she made Donna del Mondo — not a faction, not a stable. A militia. A sisterhood of assassins. With Syuri by her side, they didn’t just win matches, they dissected opponents like anatomy students with a grudge. Giulia wasn’t just wrestling to win. She was wrestling to rewrite her past.
She shaved her head after a hair-vs-hair match like it was the most natural thing in the world — because when you’ve had your identity questioned since childhood, what’s a little more loss?
That was the thing with Giulia. She didn’t sell herself as invincible. She sold herself as inevitable.
By the time she won the World of Stardom Championship, the crowd didn’t cheer because she overcame the odds — they cheered because the odds had finally stopped being stupid.
Then came NJPW, where the lines blurred between intergender war and existential theater. Tagging with Zack Sabre Jr., kneeing faces in the U.S., holding that STRONG Women’s Championship like it was a bottle of gin and she hadn’t had a drink in days — Giulia made everything she touched look cool and slightly cursed.
She didn’t just wrestle matches. She performed them. She sculpted them. She turned them into broken ballets.
And then she fractured her wrist — because of course she did. You don’t tango with gods and leave with clean joints. But even that became part of the story. She came back like a vengeance wearing lipstick. And she told everyone: I’m not done yet.
She joined Marigold next, Rossy Ogawa’s phoenix-rising-from-the-ashes promotion, and it felt like watching a queen build her next castle from the bones of the last one. She lost the main event to Sareee, her wrist still taped, her ego maybe bruised. But no one in the crowd doubted for a second that the belt had just met its rightful owner — it just didn’t know it yet.
Giulia’s final act in Japan wasn’t a match. It was a funeral for comfort zones.
Then came WWE.
You could practically hear the executives salivating. They didn’t just sign a wrestler — they signed a storm. She debuted in NXT like a shot of espresso and an elbow to the teeth. It didn’t matter if the fans understood the promos. Giulia speaks in pain, and that’s a universal language.
She won the Iron Survivor Challenge. She won the NXT Women’s Championship. Then she lost it in a Winner Takes All match to Stephanie Vaquer because wrestling doesn’t believe in clean fairy tales.
But the world had seen enough to know what came next.
Now she’s on SmackDown. And as of June 2025, she’s holding the WWE Women’s United States Championship like it owes her back rent. She pinned Zelina Vega like it was just another name in the ledger. Because it was.
She’s not here for the spotlight. She is the spotlight.
She wrestles like a bad memory trying to climb out of the basement. Her finisher — Arrivederci — isn’t just a knee lift. It’s a goodbye in four languages and a stiff breeze. Her scissored armbar crossface? She calls it Bianca, like she named her pain after an old lover.
They say her nickname is “Beautiful Madness.” But there’s nothing mad about her. Giulia knows exactly what she’s doing. It’s the rest of us who haven’t caught up yet.
If Charlotte Flair is wrestling royalty and Becky Lynch is the working-class rebellion, Giulia is something else entirely. She’s the foreign film in a blockbuster world. Subtitled rage, arthouse violence, elegance that bleeds.
She is champagne and cigarette smoke. She is opera and hammer fists.
She is, finally, what women’s wrestling said it wanted to be but was too scared to become.
And when the smoke clears and the belts gather dust, when fans move on to the next flavor of TikTok fame, Giulia will still be standing in the center of the ring — bruised, smiling, one hand raised, the other daring someone to try.
Because she isn’t chasing legacy.
She’s building a dynasty out of broken glass and stardust.
And God help the fool who tries to stop her.
