After closing the webpage on the computer, Arthur leaned back into his chair, cracked his knuckles with satisfaction, and promptly erased the name "Eto'o" from his mind as if it were an annoying pop-up ad. Whatever half-baked thoughts he had about the Cameroonian striker earlier, they were now tossed into the same mental bin where he kept useless shopping coupons and bad Tinder matches.

He strolled back to the sofa with the air of a man who had already won an argument no one else knew about. Settling into the cushions, he crossed one leg over the other and gave Raiola a smile—a very slow, deliberate smile, the sort that made you wonder whether you were being admired or about to be eaten alive.

Raiola, naturally, had no idea what Arthur was actually thinking. But after being stared at long enough, the famously tough, thick-skinned super agent—who could haggle with club presidents until their wallets wept—actually began to sweat. His thick neck twitched, and for once, his eyes darted nervously like a man cornered in a bakery with no exit.

Finally, he cleared his throat, shuffled a little, and chose his words as carefully as a politician at a scandal press conference.

"Mr. Arthur, I—I'm married."

Arthur tilted his head, blinked once, and answered flatly, "Yeah, I know."

Raiola coughed again. "Mr. Arthur, my family is, uh… pretty happy."

Arthur nodded without hesitation. "Yeah, I know."

The fat man was now visibly uncomfortable. "Uh… Mr. Arthur, just to be clear, I—I like women. If you really…"

Arthur suddenly sat forward, smacking his knee and exploding in disbelief. "Oh, for fuck's sake! I like women too! What do you think this is, a rom-com audition? Have you never seen Shakira or what?"

Raiola blinked, confused, his mouth hanging open. "Then… then why are you staring at me so lustfully?"

At this point, Raiola was practically on the verge of tears. The way Arthur's eyes were fixed on him—with the intensity of a hawk spotting a rabbit—was giving him goosebumps.

Arthur leaned back again, sighed, then suddenly leaned forward, slapping Raiola on the back so hard the man nearly swallowed his tongue. "Fatty!" Arthur declared, abandoning all pretense of formality. No more "Mino," no more "Mr. Raiola." Just "Fatty." The kind of nickname you only gave someone if you were either their best mate or their worst enemy.

Throwing a companionable arm around the agent's shoulders, Arthur whispered conspiratorially into his ear. "From what you said just now… does that mean Adriano's current agent is you now?"

Raiola stiffened, then slowly nodded. "Yes… Gilmar has sold his agent contract to me."

Arthur grinned so wide it looked like his face might split in half. "So that's why you went to Brazil this time, eh?"

Raiola's hands flailed in denial. "Uh… not exactly." He fidgeted, tugging at his collar as though it had suddenly shrunk three sizes. "Actually, I went to Brazil at Inter Milan's request. They wanted me to check on Adriano, to… well… help him. This year, they're planning to send Adriano back to Brazil."

Arthur froze mid-smile. His brows shot up, then furrowed deep. That wasn't what he remembered. In his mind, Adriano had lost his main spot under Mancini, and if memory served, Mancini wasn't even at Inter anymore—wasn't he managing Lazio by now? Something wasn't lining up here.

"Wait, what? The situation's that serious? Inter Milan are giving up on him already?" Arthur's tone was sharp, full of genuine surprise.

To be fair, he had seen the headlines, the gossip columns, the whispers about Adriano's lifestyle since the Confederations Cup last year. The kid had been struggling, no doubt. But still—Inter flat-out tossing him back to Brazil like an unwanted Amazon return? That wasn't how Arthur remembered it.

Raiola didn't catch the oddity in Arthur's voice. He nodded, then immediately shook his head like a malfunctioning bobblehead doll. "The situation is… how do I put it… a bit serious, yes. Adriano's current figure…" The agent paused, scratching his cheek awkwardly. "…well, let's just say it might be a little more exaggerated than Ronaldo's."

Arthur's jaw dropped. "More than Ronaldo?!" He threw his hands up. "What's he been eating, entire buffets?"

Raiola continued quickly, trying to soften the blow. "But Inter Milan has no intention of giving up on him! To be honest, Moratti is a very kind man. Since… you know, that incident, he and Zanetti have gone out to find Adriano countless times in the middle of the night. They've sat with him, talked with him all night, tried to comfort him and help him get out of the pain. But…" Raiola sighed, shaking his head. "It doesn't seem to be working. And from what Gilmar told me recently… Adriano is slipping into depression."

Arthur sat back, face blank, mouth slightly open. His brain filled with question marks.

"Not giving up on him?" he muttered to himself. He only remembered Adriano eventually being sent back to Brazil, but the exact backroom dealings? He hadn't paid much attention back then. The details were fuzzy.

"Then why," Arthur said suddenly, eyes narrowing at Raiola, "did they send you to Brazil? What are you supposed to do there? Go clean his house early? Fold his laundry? Cook him feijoada?"

Raiola nearly fell off the sofa. "No, no, that's not the case at all!" He waved his hands in panic, face turning pink. "Mr. Arthur, please don't look at me like that! That look—it—it puts me under so much pressure!"

And there it was. Out of professional ethics, Raiola knew he wasn't supposed to spill sensitive Inter Milan business. Absolutely forbidden. The fat man had dealt with the toughest club presidents and never cracked under pressure.

But now? Now he was sitting next to Arthur, who was staring at him with the innocent, wide-eyed intensity of a child begging for candy—or a loan shark demanding repayment. His big, eager eyes were brimming with expectation, silently shouting Talk, fatty, talk!

Raiola gulped. Speak or not? That was the question. If he spoke, he'd betray Inter. If he didn't, he might get strangled by Arthur's stare alone.

For once in his life, Mino Raiola—super agent, king of transfer deals, terror of boardrooms—was stuck in a genuine dilemma.

*****

Arthur wasn't stupid—of course he knew what Raiola was thinking. It was written all over the fat man's face like a neon sign flashing "Don't Ask!" Strictly speaking, Arthur probably shouldn't have pressed the issue. It was, after all, a touchy subject, the kind of inside story that agents guarded like their own bank accounts. But this wasn't just about any random player. This was Adriano.

Adriano!

The "Emperor" of Inter, a beast of a striker with a left foot like a cannon and a physique built to bully defenders. In his prime, the guy was unstoppable. And now? Now he was wobbling on the edge of self-destruction. If Arthur could swoop in, grab him on the cheap, slap an "injury recovery card" on him through the system, and nurse him back to his terrifying best… oh, the profits he could make. It wasn't just footballing glory he smelled—it was the intoxicating scent of money, the kind of money Raiola usually dreamed of at night while cuddling his pillow.

So Arthur leaned back casually, gave Raiola his most reassuring smile, and said,

"Mino, relax. I'm very tight-lipped. My lips are tighter than a safe, I promise you."

Raiola looked torn, his big round cheeks twitching like dough under stress. His sausage-like fingers tapped nervously on his knee. He wanted to spill, oh how he wanted to spill, but his brain kept screaming "professional ethics." Finally, he turned his head and gave Arthur a look so serious it was almost comical.

"No… Mr. Arthur… I know you must be tight-lipped," Raiola said slowly, each word dropping like a weight. "But this involves my professional ethics. You don't want your partner to be an agent with no professional ethics at all, do you?"

Arthur almost choked on his own laughter. Professional ethics? You? He had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from bursting out. If Arthur didn't know Raiola inside and out—the kind of guy who would sell his grandma if the price was right—he might've actually believed the act.

He rubbed his chin dramatically, pretending to consider Raiola's point, then leaned forward with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Alright, let's stop playing games, fatty. You're Adriano's agent now, aren't you?"

Raiola squirmed but gave a reluctant nod.

"Yes. Gilmar sold his agency rights to me."

"Good. Then here's the real question—if I go to Inter Milan with an offer for Adriano, how much can you make from it? Based on my bid, what's your cut?"

The fat man's jaw dropped. His eyes went wide like two eggs, and for a moment, Raiola genuinely forgot how to breathe.

"What? Did I hear you right, Mr. Arthur? You… you want to buy Adriano?!"

Arthur folded his arms and nodded coolly, as though he'd just declared he was going to buy a new pair of shoes instead of a world-famous striker.

"Yeah. That's the idea."

"But… but what's the point?" Raiola stammered, his voice squeaking like a balloon losing air. "His condition right now is awful! Moratti doesn't know what else to do with him—he wants to ship him back to São Paulo just so he can recuperate!"

In his panic, Raiola blurted out exactly what Arthur had been fishing for. The fat man's eyes widened as he realized his mistake, and he quickly slapped a hand over his mouth as though he could shove the words back in.

Arthur, of course, didn't miss a thing. He leaned back in the sofa, grinning like a cat that had just caught the fattest, slowest mouse.

"Recuperate, you say? São Paulo? Now that sounds interesting. Why don't you tell me more about it?"

Raiola froze. He looked like a man who had just stepped into a trap and realized the door had locked behind him. His mouth opened, closed, opened again.

"Uh…"

"Uh what?" Arthur teased, raising his eyebrows. "Don't play dumb now. You've already said it. Might as well finish the story. Or tell me—do you want to make money, or not?"

That last line was a dagger straight into Raiola's soft, greedy heart. His shoulders sagged in defeat, and with a heavy sigh, he dropped back onto the sofa. The cushions groaned under his weight, like they too were tired of carrying Raiola's burdens.

"Fine," he muttered, shaking his head. "You win."

Arthur smirked, already victorious before the details even came out.

"Here's the truth," Raiola began, voice lower now, as if confessing a secret crime. "Inter Milan and São Paulo have already reached an agreement. This year, they'll send Adriano back to Brazil. The idea is for him to play there, keep some kind of condition, while also trying to get his head back on straight."

Arthur nodded slowly, listening. He knew most of this already through the system, but hearing it confirmed made things feel more real.

Raiola continued, his pudgy hands gesturing dramatically as if he were reciting a tragic opera.

"His situation is awful, Mr. Arthur. He's drinking heavily. He's completely out of shape. His training sessions? Disasters. He's depressed. Distracted. To put it simply—everything a professional footballer shouldn't be, Adriano has become. He's a walking checklist of bad habits!"

Arthur tapped his fingers on the armrest thoughtfully. The system had already shown him Adriano's messy stats, but hearing Raiola describe it with such pained exasperation painted an even clearer picture. The guy was a wreck, sure, but wrecks could be rebuilt. Especially if you had the right tools… and Arthur had a whole bloody toolbox.

Still, one thing didn't quite fit.

"Wait," Arthur said, narrowing his eyes. "You just told me Inter Milan hasn't given up on him. So why loan him to São Paulo? Just to keep him busy?"

Raiola nodded grimly.

"Yes. Moratti doesn't want to cut ties with him yet. He still cares, still hopes the kid can recover. But from what I've heard… Mancini is going to be the coach next season. And he's furious about Adriano's state. He doesn't want him around."

Arthur's smile returned, slow and sly, curling at the edges of his mouth like smoke. This was the opening he needed. He turned sharply toward Raiola, fixing him with a look that made the fat man sweat bullets.

"Mancini doesn't want him, huh?" Arthur said softly, almost savoring the words. Then, with deliberate weight, he leaned closer and asked, word by word:

"Fatty… if I make Moratti an offer… do you think he'll agree?"

And the room went silent.