Mendes was looking at Arthur.

And Arthur was looking right back at Mendes.

The air between them seemed to hum quietly — not tense, but alert, like two chess players studying the board before the first move. For a moment, neither spoke. The only sound in the small private room was the faint crackle of the heater and the soft clinking of porcelain cups.

Arthur leaned back in his chair, one leg casually crossed over the other, that ever-present calm smile sitting comfortably on his face. Mendes, meanwhile, adjusted his cufflinks with practiced ease, returning the look with equal poise.

To an outsider, the scene might've looked perfectly civil — two professionals sharing coffee on a cold Swiss afternoon. But beneath the polite smiles and light gestures, each man was sizing the other up.

Arthur knew plenty about Jorge Mendes. You couldn't be in football management and not know. He'd heard the stories — the ones whispered in hotel bars, training lounges, and press boxes. Stories of Mendes orchestrating transfers like a master puppeteer, weaving threads between clubs, players, and sponsors across Europe.

Even before his "rebirth" as a football manager, Arthur had known of Mendes's legend. And after taking Leeds United to the top, he'd begun to understand the man's true influence — and how that influence had shaped the market itself.

But there was something else Arthur understood: his own rise had disrupted more than one empire.

Raiola's was the first.

And Mendes's… well, that was starting to feel the tremors too.

Arthur wasn't blind to the domino effect. His presence — his scouting network, his transfer vision, the players Leeds had pulled from obscurity — had changed how agents operated. The "Arthur Effect," as a few journalists called it, had made super-agents scramble.

He didn't boast about it, but he knew.

Before his rise, the likes of Falcao, James Rodríguez, Di María, Marcelo — they were names that naturally gravitated toward Mendes's portfolio. In the old days, those players would've been his clients, his golden tickets.

But not anymore.

Now, under Arthur's world, Falcao and Rodríguez had become Raiola's clients. Di María had been snatched up by Tuchel's management circle. Marcelo, still floating in Spain's second division, was under a minor representative — someone Mendes probably hadn't even noticed yet.

Every shift in that chain was like a ripple, and Arthur knew exactly who was watching those ripples with clenched teeth.

And right now, that man was sitting across from him with a polite grin and a steaming cup of coffee.

After the usual small talk — weather, travel, football gossip — the waiter quietly brought in their cups, nodded, and slipped out, leaving the four men alone once again.

The aroma of roasted beans filled the small room. Mendes lifted his cup, took a thoughtful sip, and then placed it gently on the saucer. His sharp eyes flicked back up toward Arthur.

"Mr. Morgan," he said at last, his voice smooth but edged with curiosity, "I wonder what you asked to meet me for today?"

Finally. The question that had been sitting between them like an unplayed card.

Arthur, who'd been stirring his tea lazily, glanced up with that same warm, almost teasing smile.

Seeing that the great Mendes had finally broken the silence, he placed his spoon down and folded his hands.

But instead of answering, he tilted his head slightly and asked, "Mr. Mendes, do you know Raiola?"

A simple question, but it landed with the subtle weight of a test.

Mendes blinked, surprised by the shift, but recovered instantly. "Of course," he said, his tone calm, practiced. "Although we're competitors, I'd say we have a… healthy rivalry. Occasionally we call each other — exchange notes, discuss market dynamics. Nothing personal."

Arthur's smile grew a little sharper. "Then, tell me," he said quietly, "are you familiar with the players he's signed from Leeds United in recent years?"

The words hung in the air. The moment Arthur said it, Mendes caught the undertone — that faint, mischievous glint behind the manager's politeness.

Of course he knew.

He knew exactly which players Raiola had signed from Leeds. He'd been tracking them for months — two years, in fact.

Every time Leeds produced a new young star, Mendes had tried to make contact, sending scouts, intermediaries, friendly messages through family friends. Every single time, the result had been the same: polite rejection. And then, within weeks, that same player would appear on Raiola's list.

To a man like Mendes — a man used to getting his way — it had been maddening.

But on the surface, he just smiled thinly, hiding the irritation behind charm.

"Mr. Morgan," he began, letting out a small laugh, "I understand perfectly well. To be honest, I admire your eye for talent. The media call you a 'genius selector,' and I think they're being conservative. Every young player you've brought to Leeds has flourished. At the very least, under your system, they reach their potential — something rare in modern football."

Arthur raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised at the compliment. "Oh?" he said with a faint chuckle. "I didn't expect such high praise from Europe's most powerful agent."

Mendes spread his hands slightly. "Credit where it's due. You've built something special. Leeds doesn't just win — it develops. And that's worth admiring."

Arthur nodded, taking the praise graciously. But after a short pause, that mischievous glint returned.

"Well, since you think so highly of these young players in my team," he said lightly, "why is it that I've never once heard Allen mention you signing any of them?"

That hit home.

For a brief instant, Mendes froze — just long enough for Simeone, sipping his coffee in silence, to hide a smirk behind his cup.

There it is, he thought. The boss just went for the jugular.

Mendes, for all his experience, nearly coughed. He quickly covered the slip with a polite smile, but his thoughts were racing.

What the hell kind of question is that? he thought bitterly. Why haven't I signed any Leeds players? You know perfectly well why!

Out loud, though, he gave only a light chuckle. "Ah, well… perhaps that's just coincidence," he said vaguely, adjusting his tie. "Your players are quite loyal, after all."

Arthur didn't respond immediately. He just leaned back, letting the silence stretch. It wasn't aggressive — just deliberate.

The smile on his lips didn't fade, but it sharpened ever so slightly. He was enjoying this.

For all his diplomatic polish, Mendes suddenly felt as though he'd walked into a conversation where Arthur already knew all the answers.

He wasn't used to that. Usually, he was the one with the upper hand — charming, confident, always three steps ahead. But this young man in front of him… he was different.

There was no arrogance in his manner, no raised voice or overt challenge — just calm, measured precision, as if every word he spoke had been weighed and planned.

Allen sat quietly beside them, observing the exchange like a referee waiting to blow the whistle. Simeone's eyes darted between the two men, half-amused, half-curious where this was going.

Finally, Mendes decided to deflect with grace.

"Of course," he said smoothly, "Mr. Morgan, I wouldn't dare assume your players' decisions. Leeds is a special environment — you've built a loyalty most clubs can't buy."

Arthur chuckled quietly. "Loyalty's a rare thing in football, Mr. Mendes. But when it exists… it's valuable."

Mendes nodded politely, offering a diplomatic smile while silently reassessing the man in front of him.

For all his charm, Mendes had learned an important rule in business — never underestimate quiet confidence.

And Arthur Morgan had that in spades.

So, while he might've been able to banter freely with the likes of Florentino Pérez, Abramovich, or even the Glazer family, Mendes knew better than to treat this meeting lightly.

Until he figured out what Arthur truly wanted from him, it was best to tread carefully.

Very carefully.

*****

As soon as Mendes realized what Arthur was implying, his head almost started spinning. To keep himself from making a face, he ducked his head, pretending to be interested in his coffee instead. He took a slow sip, as if pondering its flavor, when in truth, his brain was racing faster than a Champions League counterattack.

When he finally set the cup down, he forced out a smile that looked more like a grimace and said lightly, "Mr. Morgan, perhaps my sense of smell just isn't what it used to be. Every time my people tracked down one of your young stars, they were already—how should I put it—snatched up by someone else. Usually by that fellow Mino we just mentioned."

Arthur chuckled, the corners of his mouth curling into that familiar mischievous grin that had probably driven half the Premier League crazy by now. "Mr. Mendes, if your sense of smell is poor, then there's no agent in the world with a good one."

He leaned back in his chair, leisurely swirling the untouched coffee in front of him. "The reason you haven't signed any Leeds United players is actually very simple," Arthur continued, his tone teasing but deliberate. "I told every young player who joins our academy that they'll be first recommended to Raiola. If they can't reach an agreement with him, only then can they consider others. Apparently, Mino's done his job rather well—every one of them seems quite satisfied."

For a brief moment, Mendes forgot to breathe.

So it's true.

He had long suspected that Raiola's relationship with Leeds wasn't just "professional," but this? This was practically marriage-level closeness. Leeds wasn't just helping Raiola—it was feeding him. Mendes suddenly realized that Raiola hadn't merely been lucky; he had been sitting on a goldmine Arthur personally handed him.

And the craziest part? Arthur didn't even bother to hide it. He was saying all this so openly, so calmly, as if confessing the recipe to a family pie rather than revealing the secret engine behind half of Europe's biggest transfers.

In Mendes's world, such things were taboo. Agents were supposed to keep a safe distance from club executives. Too much closeness smelled of corruption, and too much transparency was suicide. But Arthur Morgan—this young, annoyingly calm man sitting across from him—wasn't playing by any of those rules. He was creating his own.

Now, Mendes couldn't stop himself from frowning. He picked up his cup again, more to buy time than to drink, and started running through a dozen possibilities in his head. Why tell me this? he thought. Is he warning me off? Testing me? Or… inviting me in?

Arthur, on the other hand, was as relaxed as a man sunbathing on a yacht. He knew exactly what he was doing. If he wanted to bring Cristiano Ronaldo to Leeds, Mendes was the bridge he needed to cross. Just as Raiola had opened doors for him in the past, Mendes could do the same on a far grander scale.

He had told Allen the same thing before their flight to Switzerland: if he could strike a deal with Mendes like the one he had with Raiola, he'd have a direct line into the highest circles of European football. And even if Ronaldo didn't come in the end, having Mendes on friendly terms would still mean power—power to move players, to negotiate fees, to steer careers.

That was what Arthur really wanted. Control.

So he laid the bait. Mentioning Raiola wasn't boasting; it was strategy. The moment Mendes started wanting what Raiola already had, he'd walk right into Arthur's web voluntarily.

And sure enough, it didn't take long.

Mendes sat there, silent for less than a minute, but his expression changed three times—shock, calculation, then something dangerously close to admiration. Finally, he exhaled, the kind of long, careful breath a man takes before making a deal with the devil.

He set the cup down gently, then looked up with that signature Portuguese charm, his tone polite but edged with interest. "So, Mr. Morgan," he said slowly, "what would it take for me to enjoy the same… privilege as Mino? The chance to sign your Leeds United players before anyone else?"

Arthur's smile deepened. He didn't answer immediately—he simply looked at Mendes, as if sizing up a fish that had just taken the bait.

And Mendes, for the first time that afternoon, realized something: in this room, despite all his power, despite all his connections, he wasn't the one holding the cards.

Arthur Morgan was.