Anne Hathaway’s ex-boyfriend Raffaello Follieri was sentenced to 4½ years in prison yesterday after pleading guilty to 14 counts of wire fraud, money laundering and conspiracy back in September. According to People Magazine

Follieri, who conceivably could have faced up to 265 years in prison, had agreed not to appeal a sentence less than 63 months in prison. The bureau of prisons will decide the level of security under which he’ll be placed.

Follieri delivered a statement in which he said, “What I did was wrong and there is no point in making excuses. … I will never be able to wash away the shame. … I just hope that someday those who have been hurt by my actions will forgive me.”

I suppose 4½ years is still better than 265 years. Even though 4½ civilian years actually translates to — let’s see, carry the one, divide by five, and… roughly 3,768 ass-rapings, give or take a few. Prison years works kinda like dog years, except instead of factoring in the person’s age, you use the penis factorial as your variable. See, math can be fun!

Anne looking gorgeous at the “Rachel Getting Married” premiere in London on Tuesday:

It looks like Anne Hathaway pulled out of the relationship just in time, because things just went from bad to oh-shit-I’m-screwed for her ex-boyfriend Raffaello Follieri. The 29-year old Italian businessman is staring down 20 years in prison for posing as an agent of the Vatican in order to scam investors out millions of dollars. The 18-page indictment charges

Follieri boasted of meeting Pope Benedict and of being tapped as the Vatican’s number one man on U.S. real estate deals. He used investors’ money to hire a pair of monsignors… to [dress as] senior clergyman “to create the false impression that Follieri had close ties to the Vatican.”

Prosecutors say Follieri used the loot to live the high life with Hathaway. His luxury expenses included a $37,000-a-month apartment, tailor-made Italian suits and a $30,000 house call from his physician, who had to be flown in to London.

That’s why you never do business with Italians. It’s always “Some day — and that day may never come — I’ll call upon you to do a service for me” this and “You nothing but a-skin and bones-a! How come-a you no eat-a the canoli? Mama mia!” that. Unless you’re in the market for a couple of reams of chest hair or pizza and a hair cut, you’re better off just avoiding them altogether. Fortunately, you can usually smell them coming a mile away, so keeping your distance isn’t too hard.

Anne at the Australian premiere of “Get Smart”: