The board room in Como was small but elegant.
Alex sat at the head of the table. He was wearing a sharp suit.
Opposite him sat the Club President. An older man with a mustache that looked like it had its own postcode.
"Mr. Finch," the President said. "We need to talk about next season."
"We do," Alex nodded.
"First," the President said. "The salary."
Mark, sitting next to Alex in a suit made of shiny blue fabric (he claimed it was 'business chic'), leaned forward.
"We demand pizza!" Mark slammed his fist on the table. "Infinite pizza! And a company car that goes vroom!"
"Mark," Alex sighed. "Please let me handle the negotiations."
The President chuckled. "We can arrange the pizza. But seriously. We are offering you five million euros a year."
Mark gasped. "That is... five million pizzas!"
Alex didn't blink. "Make it seven. And a bonus for winning the league."
"Seven?" The President raised an eyebrow. "You are expensive, Professor."
