Page 129 of My Italian Love Affair

Monday arrives with the weight of a new week and a new round of football chaos.

The charity piece has just been released, and the Roma team are already deep in preparations for their next match in two days. The league final is creeping closer, and the tension is palpable.

This is their final chance at glory for this season, and they all know it.

I settle into my desk at the office, skimming through the online reactions to my latest article. The comments are mostly positive, with the usual contingent of internet trolls, but I can’t deny a small sense of satisfaction as I scroll.

It was a good piece. One of my best, even. It highlighted the team’s efforts off the pitch and reminded the city of how much Roma does for the community.

Andfine. Maybe it included a few extra words about Matteo Rossi.

It wasn’t as if it wasintentional.

After all, it’s not my fault that he had been the last player standing with the kids long after the cameras had packed up.

And itdefinitelywasn’t related to his apology, either.

I’m in the middle of scanning through some emails when Mark appears beside my desk, his arms crossed and an insufferable smirk plastered across his face.

“Talk about a glowing review," he remarks, tilting his head. "I didn’t realise we were publishing love letters now."

"It’s acharity piece,” I scoff, trying not to look as surprised as I feel by his jibe. “What was I supposed to do - call them all media-hungry frauds and tell the world they don’t actually care about orphans?"

He shrugs.

"No, I get it. I just meant your descriptions of Rossi were…particularlygenerous. Almost poetic, really. He should be flattered."

My jaw clenches.

Mark is copied into all of the draft articles that I send to Richard, at his own request, so he’s had a few days to think about what to say to me about this.

"I wrote about him the same way I wrote about everyone else."

"Sure you did," he drawls, tapping his fingers against my desk. "You know, it’s no wonder Richard’s eating up all your work."

I set my laptop aside, already tired of this conversation.

"What do youmean, exactly?"

"Come on, Sinclair. Don’t act like you don’t know what’s happening here,” Mark says, leaning in and lowering his voice as if we’re sharing some kind of secret. “You and I both know how much people love a story - especially one witha little tension, a little rivalry. And your littledynamicwith Rossi is basically clickbait at this point. A free soap opera."

Something in my stomach twists.

I know what he's doing. I know he’s trying to get a rise out of me.

And today?

Today, it works.

I’m almost surprised. After all, this is quite mild in comparison to some of the other crap I’ve been subjected to by this man and his cronies, so I’m not sure why it’s the thing that causes me to snap.

But it does.

"You know what?”

I slam my laptop shut and push my chair back abruptly.

“I'm sick of this bullshit.”

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