Chapter 5 Chapter five
My heart jumped. LSE. Real research. A real salary. The kind of opportunity my father had dreamed about when we'd first come to this country.
"But," Williams added, "you need to finish. Not just finish. Finish well. That means focus. That means priorities. Can you do that?"
"Yes," I said. "Yes, I can do that."
Williams studied me for a long moment, then nodded. "Okay. I want the next two chapters revised by end of month. Don't make me regret believing in you."
He paused, then pulled out a newspaper. Today's Guardian. My preview article was on page five.
"I saw your piece. Good work. Important work." His expression grew serious. "But be prepared. The palace won't take this lying down. I've already had a call from the university dean. Crown Estate is a major donor to several of our research programs. They're... concerned about the findings you're planning to publish."
"Concerned meaning what?"
"Concerned meaning they're reminding us about funding dependencies. Concerned meaning they're suggesting certain PhD students might benefit from guidance about public statements." Williams met my eyes. "I'm telling you this because I believe in your research. But tread carefully. Make sure your evidence is ironclad. Make sure you can defend every claim. Institutions protect themselves, Marchetti. The Crown has been protecting itself for a thousand years."
A chill settled in my stomach. "Are you saying I should back off?"
"I'm saying be strategic. You've got one shot at this exposé. Don't give them any opening to discredit you. And for God's sake, finish your dissertation before they find a way to derail you."
\---
I left Williams's office with my head spinning. The palace was already moving against me. Of course they were. I'd published a preview of research that could embarrass the Crown Estate, potentially cost them millions, definitely damage their reputation.
And in one week, next Tuesday, I'd be presenting the full findings at a public forum in Brixton.
I walked to the library, found a quiet corner, and opened my laptop. Pulled up the research I'd been compiling for over a year. Maps showing Crown Estate developments clustered in low-income areas. Environmental data proving they'd knowingly built near industrial sites with dangerous pollution levels. Internal emails obtained through Freedom of Information requests showing executives discussing how to minimize compensation to displaced families.
And the document I'd found six months ago, buried in archives: the safety report for the construction site where my father died. The report that showed Crown Estate managers had been warned about scaffold violations three weeks before the accident. The report that proved they'd decided the cost of fixing the violations exceeded the potential liability of an accident.
My father's life, reduced to a risk-benefit calculation.
Lorenzo Marchetti. Forty-one years old. Crushed under scaffolding that should have been reinforced. Working overtime to earn enough for Marco's school supplies. The company had paid a settlement. £50,000 that barely covered his funeral and Mum's immediate bills. Made her sign an NDA. Told her it was an unfortunate accident, no one to blame.
They'd lied.
I'd been nineteen when he died. A first-year undergraduate, still figuring out who I was in this country, in this language, in this life. And suddenly I was the man of the family. Mum spoke almost no English. Giulia was fourteen. Marco was seven.
Everything changed that day.
Ten years later, I was going to prove what really happened. I was going to make sure everyone knew that my father's death wasn't an accident. It was a choice. A calculated business decision made by people who never had to face consequences.
My phone buzzed, interrupting the familiar spiral of anger and grief.
Text from an unknown number: Dr. Marchetti, this is Rosa Lombardi from Brixton Community Centre. Confirming you're all set for Tuesday's forum, 7 PM. We're expecting quite a crowd. Your Guardian piece has generated a lot of interest. Looking forward to it.
Right. The forum. One week away.
I typed back: Confirmed. See you Tuesday.
I should feel ready. I'd been preparing for months. My presentation was polished, my evidence solid, my argument irrefutable. This was what I'd been working toward. Public platform to expose the truth, media attention to force accountability, community support to demand change.
But Williams's warning echoed: The palace won't take this lying down.
What would they do? Legal threats? Discredit my research? Go after my funding, my degree, my future?
I couldn't think about that now. I just had to make sure my evidence was unassailable. Make sure they couldn't find any weakness to exploit.
I spent the next three hours reviewing every document, every citation, every claim. Looking for gaps, inconsistencies, anything they could use against me.
My phone buzzed again. Giulia: Mum's prescription is £80. Can you cover it? I'm short this week.
I checked my bank balance: £287.43. Rent due Friday: £1,800. My share: £900. The catering shift last night had paid £200, which meant I was £620 short.
I had two tutoring sessions scheduled this week (£50 each), and I was supposed to work a Saturday shift at the corner shop (£60). That would get me to £860. Still £40 short, and that was before Mum's prescription.
I texted back: Yeah, I'll transfer it now. Can you pick it up?
Her response: Already did. I paid, just need you to reimburse me.
I transferred the money, watching my balance drop to £207.43.
The LSE postdoc Williams mentioned would pay around £35,000 a year. Not a fortune, but compared to what I was surviving on now. Between TA stipend, tutoring, and odd jobs, I was making maybe £18,000 total.
£35,000 would change everything. I could actually help my family without drowning. Could maybe even save money. Move out of the sitting room. Have a life that wasn't just work and survival.
If I could defend by spring. If the palace didn't derail me first. If I could hold everything together for just a few more months.
Too many ifs.
\---
By the time I got home that evening, after teaching, after a tutoring session in South Kensington (their kitchen was bigger than our entire flat), after a quick shift helping stock shelves at Mr. Singh's corner shop, it was past nine.
Mum was at the kitchen table, still in her hospital cleaning uniform, doing a word search puzzle with reading glasses perched on her nose. Marco was in the bedroom he shared with his books and football posters, probably studying. Giulia had texted earlier that she'd be staying at the hospital overnight for clinical training.
"Sei in ritardo," Mum said without looking up. You're late.
"Scusa, Mamma." Sorry, Mum.
She looked up at me over her reading glasses, taking in my exhaustion with the x-ray vision only mothers possess. "Hai mangiato?" Have you eaten?
"Mangio adesso." I'll eat now.
She'd left pasta in the fridge. Simple pomodoro sauce, the kind that tasted like home and childhood and everything I was working myself to death to preserve. I heated it up, sat across from her at the small table that had been in this flat since we'd moved in twelve years ago.
"Come va il lavoro?" she asked. How's work?
"Bene." Fine.
She set down her puzzle. "Menti." You're lying.
I smiled despite everything. She always knew.
"Lots going on," I admitted in English. Mum understood more than she spoke. "Dissertation deadline. The big presentation next week. Some... political complications."