The phone line went dead silent for a long, stretched-out moment. It was the kind of silence that made Arthur wonder if Moratti had fallen asleep in his leather chair, or if maybe the old man had fainted from shock after hearing his blunt words. Arthur sat with the phone pressed against his ear, drumming his fingers against the desk, waiting for the tycoon on the other end to wake up from whatever daze he had been sent into.

Finally, Moratti's voice returned, slower, more deliberate, and carrying a different tone than before. "Mr. Morgan," he said, the stiffness in his voice giving way to something almost… amused. "You are the most direct man from your part of the world I have ever met. Truly. After I gave you my private number, I played out the scene of our negotiation in my head many times. I prepared for flattery, for subtle persuasion, maybe even for a bit of groveling."

There was a small chuckle in his throat, but also a tinge of disbelief. "But I did not, even for a second, imagine that you would open your mouth and tell me—Massimo Moratti—that I might not be suitable for the football industry."

Arthur leaned back in his chair, smirking. He could almost see Moratti's bushy eyebrows shooting up in indignation on the other end of the line. He could almost picture the man clutching at his chest like someone had just told him oil was going out of fashion.

Still, Moratti pressed on. "But since you are so blunt, I will be blunt too. About your pursuit of Adriano… let me tell you my true thoughts. First, your price is too low. Far too low. According to our evaluation team, Adriano's current value is around forty million euros. What you have offered is not even close to this number."

Arthur raised his eyebrows, but didn't speak yet. Moratti wasn't finished.

"Second," the Italian sighed, his voice softening with something that almost sounded like fatherly affection, "from a personal point of view, I truly don't want to let Adriano go. This boy—he has given himself to the club with real sincerity. He has been through difficult years, and though his form has dipped, I still hold hope for him. I want to help him. I have already begun to think of ways to save him."

Arthur almost choked on his own spit. Ways to save him? Save him from what—an allergy to professionalism? Arthur rubbed his temples. He knew exactly what kind of "ways" an old sentimental man like Moratti would come up with.

And sure enough, he remembered those dreadful rumors he had read before. Adriano himself had admitted in an interview: every time he went back to Brazil, his so-called "friends" dragged him out to party every night, until dawn broke and the sun burned through his hangover. They drank, they smoked, they laughed, and they wasted. And Adriano wasted away right along with them.

Arthur shook his head violently, his jaw tightening. No. That had to be stopped. If this sentimental billionaire really thought sending Adriano back to Brazil would "save" him, then he might as well put a bottle of vodka in his hand and wave him goodbye at the airport.

"Mr. Moratti," Arthur said suddenly, his voice sharp, cutting through the pause like a whistle on the pitch, "I want to ask—what exactly is your so-called method of saving him?"

There was a pause. Strictly speaking, this kind of thing was a club secret. Normally Moratti would never reveal it to an outsider. But hearing Arthur's keen persistence, and knowing how desperate he was for Adriano, Moratti thought he could use this as a weapon—to kill off the young man's hope of a transfer once and for all.

So Moratti answered with confidence. "I plan to loan him back to Brazil. Let him recuperate at home. Maybe returning to his roots, to his own people, will make him feel better and restore him."

Arthur nearly dropped the phone. His mouth fell open and his eyes bulged in disbelief. "Mr. Moratti," he blurted out, unable to hold back, "you must be out of your mind!"

There was a heavy silence on the other end, followed by the sound of an indignant breath being sucked in.

Moratti froze. His whole face must have gone red. He was already fuming from Arthur's earlier jabs, but this? This was like being slapped in the face with a wet fish. Less than five minutes into this conversation, this young upstart had now insulted him twice—once directly, once indirectly.

Inside, Moratti's temper roared: This brat! Who does he think he is? I'm Massimo Moratti! I bought Inter Milan with my own fortune. I keep this club alive with my money and my passion! And this little man has the nerve to call me crazy?

He was just about to unleash a storm of fury when Arthur's voice cut in again, quick and firm, before he could explode.

"Mr. Moratti, listen to me. If you send Adriano back to Brazil, you won't be saving him—you'll be destroying him. As far as I know, the only reason he can still play football right now is because of Inter Milan's patience, your club's tolerance, and the discipline Mancini forces on him. If you send him back home, those 'bad friends' of his will have him in bars every night, drinking and wasting away. I swear, within six months, this man will be finished. Completely useless."

There was a long inhale on the other end of the phone. A hiss.

The fury bubbling in Moratti's chest slowly deflated, like a balloon losing air. He sat back in his chair, stunned. His mind replayed Arthur's words, and a horrible realization crept in.

He knew Arthur was right.

Why hadn't he thought of that before?

He imagined Adriano stepping off the plane in São Paulo, and before the baggage claim even cleared, his childhood friends would be there waiting, arms wide open, smiles mischievous. They'd drag him straight into a nightclub, hand him glass after glass, and drown him in the life of excess he had never truly escaped.

It was an old saying, and it rang truer than ever now: it's easy to go from frugality to luxury, but nearly impossible to go back from luxury to frugality. Adriano was no longer the poor boy from the favela. He was a star, rich, adored, spoiled. Once back in Brazil, with endless temptations at his doorstep, how could he resist?

No. Moratti's plan suddenly looked reckless, even dangerous.

His earlier fire cooled into unease. He realized this was something that needed a lot more thought than he had given it.

*****

Arthur could hear it through the receiver—the long, drawn-out breath of Massimo Moratti. The man wasn't exactly sighing, but it was the kind of heavy exhale that told Arthur his words had struck a nerve. Good. That meant his point had gotten through. He straightened in his chair, smirking as if Moratti could see it through the phone, and pressed on while the iron was hot.

"Mr. Moratti," Arthur said quickly, seizing momentum before the Inter Milan president could find his footing again. "Let's do some simple math together, shall we? Adriano's contract expires next year, right?"

There was a pause on the line, long enough that Arthur could imagine the oil magnate frowning into his desk calendar. He didn't wait for an answer; he didn't need one.

"Now, let's imagine you send him back to Brazil like you said," Arthur continued, his voice sharp but laced with an almost mischievous energy. "We both know what'll happen. He won't 'recover.' He'll unravel. He'll drink, he'll party, he'll spend his nights in bars with people who care more about empty bottles than footballs. And then? He'll be ruined. Finished. Worthless." Arthur snapped his fingers for emphasis, though Moratti couldn't hear it. "And once he's ruined, you can't sell him. You can't keep him. He'll be dead weight, and Inter Milan will be left with nothing but regret."

The words landed heavy. Arthur could almost hear the old man squirming in his seat. He let the silence linger just a second, then pounced again.

"But!" Arthur leaned back and softened his tone just a notch, like a salesman dangling the solution after painting the disaster. "If you sell him to Leeds United now, yes, maybe the money isn't quite the lofty figure your accountants scribbled in their reports. But you dodge that massive risk. You guarantee yourselves a clean exit. And at the very least, Inter walk away with cash in hand, not a headache. Isn't that a smarter play?"

On the other end of the line, Moratti finally responded, his voice still dignified but noticeably less firm. "Mr. Morgan, your reasoning… has merit. But—"

Arthur hated "but." He despised it. It was the bane of every negotiation. He could practically feel the word floating through the phone like a wet towel trying to smother his fire. He cut it off instantly, not giving Moratti the chance to breathe life into it.

"I know, I know," Arthur bulldozed right over him, his voice energetic, even a bit theatrical. "You care about Adriano. You've got feelings wrapped up in this. I understand. You want him to bounce back, otherwise you wouldn't be talking about this bizarre scheme of sending him back home. But let's be honest with ourselves here: is that really where he'll get better?"

He didn't wait for Moratti to answer. Instead, Arthur leaned in with his trump card, his voice dropping into a more serious, persuasive tone.

"Take a look at Deisler," he said, naming the fragile German talent whose career was a cautionary tale. "The man was practically written off, everyone thought he was done. Then he came to Leeds United. And what happened? He found his feet again. He came back to life under us. He was a star again. Doesn't that prove that Leeds can be the place where lost players revive themselves?"

Moratti hesitated. Arthur knew he had him hooked for a second. He could almost picture the older man's brows furrowing, thinking back to Deisler's resurgence. It was true—at Leeds, the German had looked like a phoenix rising from the ashes.

But then, predictably, the counter came. "But," Moratti muttered, his voice edged with skepticism, "he retired soon after, when he went to Liverpool!"

Arthur slapped his palm against the desk, startling himself with the sound. "That's Benítez's fault!" he thundered, as though the Spaniard were standing in the room with them. "At Leeds, Deisler played beautifully. He flourished. He thrived. Why did he retire at Liverpool? Because Benítez didn't know how to handle him! That's not on the player, and certainly not on us. If anything, it proves Leeds know how to take care of these talents better than most!"

He spoke so passionately that even he was nearly convinced he'd just uncovered a football conspiracy. He leaned forward, lowering his tone again, sharp and commanding.

"Mr. Moratti, let's not get sidetracked here," Arthur said firmly, reclaiming the reins of the conversation. "This isn't about Liverpool. This isn't about Benítez. Let's keep our focus. Here's what I'm putting on the table: I'll raise my offer. Three million more. Thirty-three million euros, straight. Leeds United take Adriano off your hands. Done. Simple. What do you say?"

There was another silence, but this time it was different. Arthur could feel Moratti thinking hard, weighing numbers in his head.

Inside his own, Arthur was already grinning. He knew Moratti had heard that number clearly. Thirty-three million. It was creeping close to the man's real threshold, Arthur was certain of it. He couldn't see him, but he imagined Moratti's face—the calm, practiced mask of an oil tycoon slipping ever so slightly as the figure settled in his mind.

On the other end of the line, Moratti shook his head. His voice, when it came, was smooth, calm, but not entirely unyielding. "Thirty-three million euros? Hm. That is closer, yes. But I still think it's a little low. You must understand, Mr. Morgan, if we sell Adriano, we'll need to find a replacement. And finding that kind of player does not come cheap."

Arthur froze. Replacement? The word bounced around in his mind like a pinball, lighting up possibilities. And then—bam. Inspiration struck.

Of course! If Leeds got Adriano, their forward line would be bursting. Too many strikers, too few spots. Someone would have to go eventually. Why not tie it into this deal? Why not hand Inter a solution along with their problem?

Arthur's grin widened. He leaned toward the receiver, his voice lively and smooth. "Ah, Mr. Moratti, now you're speaking my language. A replacement, yes… perhaps Leeds United could help you with that. After all, we've got a few forwards on our books. Options you might find… interesting."

And with that, the conversation hung in the air like a chessboard mid-match—both sides thinking several moves ahead, both knowing the next words would set the course.