Arthur had been expecting something different, maybe even a sly grin or a fat-fingered thumbs-up from Raiola, but instead he was met with a look that could sour milk. The super-agent's brows had folded so deeply they looked like someone had carved the Greek letter "川" into his forehead.

"Mr. Arthur," Raiola said with the gravity of a man declaring that pizza was now illegal, "the possibility is very small."

Arthur blinked. "What? Why? Isn't Adriano practically useless at the moment?"

He wasn't trying to be cruel, but let's be honest—Adriano's reputation had gone from "The Emperor" to "The Guy Who Can't Be Trusted Alone with a Mini-Bar" in record time.

Raiola, however, was unfazed by Arthur's bluntness. He leaned back with the kind of dramatic sigh that only a man in a custom-tailored suit with a belly that looked like it had its own orbit could deliver. "There are several reasons," he said, pausing like a priest about to recite holy scripture.

Arthur raised an eyebrow, waiting.

"First," Raiola explained, "Adriano's value is still considered very high. In 2004, Inter Milan spent a great deal of money to buy back his full rights from Parma. Moratti invested heavily in him. So until Adriano completely declares his career dead and buried, Moratti is unlikely to let him go cheaply. That's the first point."

Arthur scratched his chin. "Alright, that's… sort of logical. Go on."

"The second," Raiola continued, wagging a finger like a schoolteacher, "is the player's personal choice. For the past two years, everyone at Inter—teammates, coaches, management, even the fans—have tried to help him. This has created in Adriano a deep affection for Inter Milan. Unless the club itself publicly states they're done with him, he will not be willing to leave the San Siro. Or the Meazza, as they call it."

Arthur just stared at him, eyes narrowing, lips curling into something between a smirk and disbelief. Then he rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't detach from their sockets and go rolling under the desk.

"Is there some kind of magnet buried under Milan?" Arthur muttered aloud, half to himself. "First Kaka refuses to leave, now Adriano doesn't want to either? What is this—football's answer to quicksand? You get in and suddenly you're too sentimental to leave?"

He threw his hands up in mock frustration. "And aren't Brazilian players supposed to be all about money and beaches? What's this about loyalty and feelings? Are they taking the pity route now? Did I miss the memo?"

Raiola just looked at him blankly, either pretending not to hear or genuinely confused as to whether Arthur was joking.

But Arthur wasn't the kind of man to give up just because the fat agent made a sad face. If he had a chance at a guaranteed deal, there was no way he'd let it slip by. Passing up such an opportunity would be more painful than losing a derby match because the ball ricocheted off your defender's backside in stoppage time.

So, after a moment of tapping his fingers on the desk and thinking, Arthur leaned forward, voice suddenly serious. "Mino, you've got to help me on this. As for Moratti, I'll get Allen to make a formal offer first. After that, you—" Arthur pointed dramatically at Raiola, "—you'll help me work on Adriano himself. You don't even need to say much. Just drop the hint that Leeds United is interested. Let the idea simmer. Then once I've dealt with Moratti, I'll go to Milan personally to talk to him. That way, he knows I'm serious."

Raiola's eyes bulged as if Arthur had just suggested they kidnap the Pope. He slumped back into his chair and groaned. "Mr. Arthur, you really do like to hand me impossible missions, don't you?"

Arthur shrugged innocently. "Why? What's so impossible about it?"

Raiola waved his pudgy hands dramatically. "Let me ask you this—am I supposed to go to Brazil this time or not?"

Arthur tilted his head. "Well… yes. Obviously. Who else is going to make it look convincing?"

Raiola gave the kind of sigh that suggested he would need at least three pizzas and a spa weekend to recover from this stress. But in the end, he agreed. He still had to put on a good show, after all.

Before boarding his flight to Brazil, though, Raiola carried out one more task on Arthur's orders. He went to find Allen and accompanied him to the youth academy. There, with some paperwork and the usual agent theatrics, he secured Harry Kane's agent contract. A tidy piece of business tucked into the side pocket of his enormous suit.

Arthur, meanwhile, was just as quick on the trigger. Almost the second Raiola's plane wheels left the runway, Allen sent an official offer email to Inter Milan for Adriano.

The figure? 30 million euros.

It was a carefully chosen number. Not too high, not insultingly low—just ambiguous enough to make Inter stop and think.

Rumors had it Moratti spent nearly 27 million to buy back the remaining half of Adriano's ownership from Parma. In reality, the sum had been less than 23 million. Back in 2004, Adriano had been valued at an eye-watering 46 million euros. But that was when he was fit, hungry, and terrifying defenders everywhere.

Now? His condition was deteriorating faster than milk in the sun. So Leeds' 30 million offer wasn't unreasonable. If anything, it was generous for a player who had spent more time with a bottle than with a football lately.

But Raiola had been right all along.

The reply from Inter came almost immediately after receiving Allen's email. And it was as blunt as a hammer.

They didn't bother with the usual "this offer does not match the player's value" or "thank you for your interest, but the conditions are not right" corporate waffle. No, their reply was just one simple line:

"Sorry, Adriano is not for sale at Inter Milan."

Arthur read the email in his office later that day. His jaw dropped, and for a moment, he just stared at the screen like it had sprouted legs and insulted his mother.

"Not for sale? Really?" he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his forehead. "There's no such thing as 'not for sale' in football. The only reason someone isn't for sale is because the offer isn't high enough. That's it. End of story. Who do they think they're kidding with this 'not for sale' crap?"

Still shaking his head, Arthur grabbed his phone after the afternoon training session and marched back into his office. There was only one way to cut through the nonsense, and that was to go straight to the source.

So he dialed Moratti directly.

And that's exactly where things now stood.

****

The phone call connected after a few seconds of static.

"Hello, who is this?" came a deep, smooth voice, faintly lazy but carrying that unmistakable gravitas of old money. It was Massimo Moratti, the oil tycoon, patriarch of Inter Milan, a man who probably hadn't dialed a phone himself in twenty years.

Arthur leaned back in his chair, adjusting his tone to sound both polite and assertive. "Hello, Mr. Moratti. This is Arthur Morgan, the owner of Leeds United."

There was a pause on the other end. Then a surprised chuckle. "Mr. Morgan?" Moratti repeated, as though he'd just picked up the phone expecting an annoying insurance salesman and instead found the Queen herself. He even pulled the receiver away for a second to double-check the unfamiliar number flashing on the screen. Once satisfied it wasn't a prank call, he brought it back to his ear, amusement dripping from his words. "Ha! I didn't expect you to ring me quite so soon."

Arthur smirked. "Procrastination isn't my style, Mr. Moratti." He cleared his throat, steadying his voice so it carried the weight of business rather than banter. "I saw the reply email your club sent this morning. But since you didn't refuse when I asked for your private phone number, I can only assume that means there's still some room for discussion on this deal, isn't there?"

For a brief moment, silence lingered on the line. Then Moratti's chuckle returned, a softer, knowing one this time. "Ah, Mr. Morgan, I think you may have misunderstood me. Adriano is… how do I put it? Non-transferable. I can't sell him. The reason I didn't refuse your request for my number is because—" his tone brightened, smooth as silk and twice as slippery "—I believe we may find opportunities for cooperation in other areas."

It was the classic move of a veteran negotiator: shut the door on the specific deal, but leave a crack open for some vague, undefined partnership.

Arthur narrowed his eyes, staring at the office wall as though it were Moratti's smug face. Cooperation in "other areas"? What was that supposed to mean? Joint sponsorships? Some kind of player swap nobody wanted? No, Arthur wasn't interested in that dance. He wasn't calling to flirt with possibilities. He was here for one reason and one reason only: Adriano.

So he cut through the fluff with the delicacy of a bulldozer. "Mr. Moratti, with respect, buying Adriano is the only reason I called you today. You mentioned cooperation in other areas—well, I'll be honest. At the moment, I don't think that's necessary."

The smile on the other end seemed to vanish. Moratti's breathing sharpened, and though his voice remained calm, it carried an unmistakable chill. He had been warned, of course. People in football circles whispered that this young Leeds owner, Arthur Morgan, had a habit of barging through negotiations like a man who'd skipped the appetizer and gone straight for the steak. Now, experiencing it first-hand, Moratti—himself a titan of wealth and stubbornness—felt a flicker of irritation.

He exhaled slowly and said, "If that's the case, Mr. Morgan, then I believe there's nothing more to discuss between us. I have other matters to attend to, so I'll—"

"Mr. Moratti," Arthur interrupted before the Italian could hang up. His voice was sharp, cutting, direct. "Tell me—what is your psychological price for Adriano?"

The bluntness was like a hammer blow. No riddles, no polite fencing, just pure, unvarnished negotiation: Name your price.

Moratti froze, caught mid-sentence. Arthur's meaning couldn't be clearer: Stop pretending this is about sentiment. Stop hiding behind vague excuses. Just spit out the number already.

For a second, Moratti almost admired the audacity. But then pride surged back. His tone hardened, defensive and righteous. "No! You don't understand, Mr. Morgan. The relationship between Inter Milan and Adriano is not something you can calculate with money. Adriano is very important to us—his presence, his connection to the fans, to the club. It cannot be measured by numbers on a cheque!"

Arthur's eyebrows shot up. He nearly dropped the phone from sheer disbelief. Did this man really just try to pull the "more than money" card? In football?

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering under his breath, "Oh, for heaven's sake…"

The urge to crack open Moratti's sixty-something-year-old head and see what on earth rattled around inside was overwhelming. Important to the club? Beyond money? Sure, Adriano had been a monster in his prime, but now? He was sulking on the sidelines, his form spiraling down, his fitness a joke. What on earth was this "priceless" nonsense?

Arthur leaned forward, tone dripping with sarcasm. "Come on now, Mr. Moratti. You've owned Inter Milan for what—more than ten years? After all that time, you're still clinging to the fantasy that there are things in football which can't be measured in money?" His voice sharpened with every word, hammering the point home. "Look, if you think my offer was too low, then fine, say it. That's normal. Business is about negotiation, about give and take. But don't stand there pretending money doesn't matter. If you keep this attitude, then frankly, I'd start to wonder if maybe you're not all that suited for the football business."

The words landed like a cannon blast.

On the other end of the line, Moratti went completely silent. Not even a breath, not even a sigh.

Arthur grinned, imagining the man's face turning red as he tried to process what had just happened. Here he was, a sixty-something oil baron who'd run Inter for over a decade, being told by a brash thirty-something Englishman that he might not be fit for football.

For the first time in years, Massimo Moratti found himself utterly speechless.