The intruder leant on the door frame like a drunk against a lamppost.

‘Where the fuck’s my fucking jacket, you cunt?’

As always, Rodolfo marvelled at how repulsively attractive Vincenzo was, with his sleek black hair, aquiline features, intense eyes, slim body and devastating devil-may-care manner.

‘Jacket?’ he replied, getting out of bed and pulling on his jeans.

‘My football jacket! It’s disappeared!’

Vincenzo grasped the shapeless, acid-green polyester garment that he was wearing over an incongruously fashionable dress shirt.

‘I had to borrow this piece of shit from Michele. I want my own jacket to go to games in, God damn it! My signature jacket!’

Rodolfo steered his flatmate out into the living room and softly closed the bedroom door behind them.

‘You mean the black leather one with the Bologna FC crest on the back?’

‘Of course I do! I’ve worn it to every single match since…For years and years. For ever! It’s the team’s lucky charm! When I don’t wear it we lose, just like we did tonight.’

Rodolfo gestured apologetically.

‘I’m sorry, Vincenzo. My coat was stolen at the university. I haven’t been well, as you know, and it’s freezing cold out there so I borrowed one of your jackets. You weren’t around, so I couldn’t ask, I just took the shabbiest one I could find. I didn’t realise it was so precious to you. You’ve got tons of clothes, after all.’

Vincenzo Amadori’s extensive and eclectic wardrobe was indeed one of the principal reasons why he and Rodolfo were sharing this relatively luxurious apartment in the first place.

‘I’m really sorry,’ Rodolfo repeated. ‘Your jacket’s safe next door, but I don’t want to turn the light on and wake Flavia.’

But Vincenzo, typically, had already lost interest in the subject.

‘Who cares?’ he said, dismissively waving a limp hand. ‘It’s all hopeless anyway.’