"Boss, we're all traveling, right? Then why not Spain?" Simeone's voice carried a mix of complaint and chattering teeth. He had his scarf wound around his neck like a python and his coat zipped to his nose. "At least it's sunny there right now! This is torture. Whose idea was Switzerland?"

Arthur shot him a look, his breath misting in the icy air. His expression said he'd heard this at least ten times already. "Stop whining, Diego. Allen and I are on vacation. You, my friend, are working."

"Working?" Simeone's eyes widened in disbelief. "You're kidding! Why do I always get stuck doing 'work' when you decide to travel?"

Arthur shrugged, an amused smirk tugging at his lips. "Because I pay you a salary, that's why."

Simeone threw up his hands in mock despair. "Unbelievable! I should've been a singer. At least Shakira gets a warmer tour schedule."

Arthur snorted. "You'd still find something to complain about."

Allen, walking beside them, tried not to laugh. "You two sound like an old married couple," he said, zipping up his own windbreaker. "For what it's worth, I agree with Diego. Interlaken in October is brutal."

Arthur turned his collar up against the cold wind. "It's not that bad. It builds character."

Simeone scoffed, stomping through the thin layer of snow on the cobbled street. "Character my ass. My toes are dying."

The trio walked on through the small Swiss town, their boots crunching in rhythm. The street was lined with little wooden buildings, smoke rising lazily from chimneys. Snow dusted the rooftops, and the distant peaks of the Jungfrau glowed faintly under the pale sunlight.

It might've been beautiful if Simeone weren't so busy muttering curses in Spanish.

Allen, grinning, said, "We could've picked Geneva, you know. Warm cafés, big hotels, no snow."

Arthur shook his head. "Too many reporters. We're not here for sightseeing."

Simeone groaned. "So instead, you bring us here — where even the sheep wear scarves."

Arthur laughed. "You talk too much. Maybe I should've brought Alves instead."

"Over my dead body," Simeone said quickly. "He never stops talking about his hair gel. I'd jump into the lake before listening to that."

Allen covered his mouth, trying not to laugh again. "Focus, boys. Mendes is already waiting."

The three men continued through the chilly streets. It was mid-October, and though England was rainy, Switzerland had already surrendered to winter. A light snowfall drifted down, landing on Simeone's hair and melting instantly.

"I can't believe I agreed to this," Simeone grumbled, clutching his coat tighter. "We could've just met Mendes over Zoom."

Arthur gave him a flat look. "And leak our entire transfer plan on the internet? No thanks."

Allen nodded. "Besides, this place is remote enough. No journalists, no cameras."

"Except the ones following my misery," Simeone muttered under his breath.

Arthur ignored him and asked, "He confirmed the location?"

"Yeah," Allen replied. "He said he's waiting outside the café ahead."

Arthur squinted through the misty air. "This place?"

They turned a corner — and there it was.

An old-fashioned café sat on the quiet street corner, its faded sign creaking in the wind. The place looked like something out of another era — wooden beams, flower boxes under the windows, and a faint golden glow spilling through the frosted glass.

In front of the café stood a man in a baseball cap and long coat, looking down at his phone. His mask covered most of his face, but the calm, poised posture gave him away immediately.

"That must be him," Arthur said.

Simeone glanced at the man and made a face. "He couldn't wait inside where it's warm? That's a red flag already."

"Diego," Allen said patiently, "please, just behave for five minutes."

"I'm just saying," Simeone went on, "if you're meeting one of the biggest football managers in Europe, maybe don't make him freeze to death outside a café. And a café, of all places! Does he even know you don't drink coffee, boss?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "You're unbelievable. Do I complain this much when you pick the restaurant?"

"Yes," Simeone said without hesitation.

Allen nearly choked laughing. "He's got you there, boss."

Arthur groaned and waved him off. "You two can open a comedy club after this. Let's just get this over with before someone recognizes us."

All three pulled their masks higher, glancing around cautiously.

Even though Interlaken was far quieter than Madrid or London, Arthur wasn't taking chances. The paparazzi had an uncanny talent for showing up anywhere — even in the middle of a Swiss mountain town.

As they neared, the man outside the café looked up, phone slipping into his coat pocket.

Allen greeted him first. "Good afternoon, Jorge."

The man nodded, his eyes smiling above the mask. "Good afternoon, Allen." His Portuguese accent was smooth and unhurried.

Allen gestured toward Arthur. "This is my boss, Mr. Morgan."

Mendes turned immediately, offering a polite nod. "Mr. Morgan. It's an honor to meet you."

Arthur returned the gesture with an easy smile. "Likewise, Mr. Mendes. Though I have to say — this Swiss air is testing my patience. Shall we go inside before I freeze solid?"

Mendes chuckled, stepping aside and holding out an arm in invitation. "Of course. I've already booked a private room for us."

"Smart man," Arthur said approvingly, brushing a few snowflakes from his coat. "Let's go."

Simeone muttered under his breath, "Finally, civilization."

Allen elbowed him lightly. "Try to look professional for five minutes."

"I am professional," Simeone whispered indignantly. "Professionally cold."

Arthur shook his head, suppressing a laugh as they followed Mendes into the café.

The warmth inside hit them like a wave. The smell of roasted coffee beans and pastries filled the air, mixing with the soft hum of conversation. A bell jingled faintly as the door closed behind them, shutting out the cold wind.

The café was small but cozy — polished wooden tables, dim lighting, and a handful of tourists chatting quietly. A fireplace crackled near the back, and an old espresso machine hissed softly behind the counter.

Arthur glanced around approvingly. "Not bad. You've got taste, Mendes."

"I try," Mendes said with a small smile.

Simeone, rubbing his hands together, sighed in relief. "Finally, warmth. My ancestors can rest now."

Arthur shot him a smirk. "If you complain once more, I'll make you sit outside."

Simeone held up both hands in surrender. "Not a word, boss. Silent as a saint."

Allen chuckled. "That'll be the day."

They didn't draw much attention as they entered. With their masks and coats, they looked like just another group of tourists hiding from the cold.

Mendes turned to the waiter near the counter, exchanging a few quiet words. The waiter nodded and gestured toward the back of the café, where a narrow hallway led to a more secluded area.

Arthur gave a small nod to Allen and Simeone, then followed Mendes as the waiter led the way.

The air was warmer, quieter — the kind of privacy Arthur appreciated when serious business was about to begin.

Led by the waiter, the four walked into a private room.

******

As soon as they entered, the warmth of the private room wrapped around them like a soft blanket. The place was quiet — only the gentle hiss of a radiator and the muffled clinking of cups from the café outside. A small round table stood in the center, set with cups, napkins, and a little vase with a single white tulip.

Mendes gestured for everyone to sit. "Please, gentlemen."

Arthur took the chair opposite him, loosening his windbreaker as Simeone flopped into a seat with a dramatic sigh. Allen quietly took the middle spot, his notepad already out of his coat pocket.

As soon as Mendes sat down, he took off his cap and mask, revealing a sharply dressed man with neatly combed hair and that unmistakable air of quiet confidence. Turning to Arthur, he smiled.

"Mr. Morgan, we can take off the masks now. The owner here is a good friend of mine," Mendes said smoothly. "He'll personally bring us coffee in a few minutes. No cameras, no prying eyes."

Arthur nodded, pulling off his own mask with a small grin. "You're thoughtful, Mr. Mendes. I appreciate that."

Allen and Simeone followed suit, finally freeing themselves from the awkward straps and fogged-up glasses. Simeone immediately took a deep breath and leaned back, looking around. "Finally! I can breathe again. I was starting to feel like a masked vigilante."

Arthur smirked. "You complain too much for a professional."

"I'm passionate," Simeone corrected with a grin.

Meanwhile, Mendes took a brief moment to look at the man sitting across from him — the one the English press called the young visionary of Leeds United.

For a man who had turned the football world upside down in just two years, Arthur Morgan looked remarkably relaxed. His dark hair was a little messy from the wind, his eyes calm but sharp, and that faint, unreadable smile never seemed to leave his face.

Up close, Mendes found himself thinking something he hadn't expected.

So young.

It wasn't just surprise — it was almost disbelief. In an industry filled with men twice his age still chasing relevance, here was someone in his early thirties running a Premier League powerhouse, reshaping recruitment strategies across Europe, and outsmarting billion-dollar clubs like it was a game of chess.

Mendes leaned back slightly, masking his thoughts with a polite smile. "I have to say, Mr. Morgan, meeting you in person feels… overdue. I've followed Leeds closely these last two seasons."

Arthur's expression didn't change. "Then you probably know we've been busy."

"I'd say successful," Mendes replied lightly. "Very successful."

Arthur chuckled under his breath. "Depends who you ask. The tabloids still think I'm a mad scientist."

Simeone grinned. "They're not entirely wrong."

Arthur gave him a side-eye. "Careful, Diego."

Mendes smiled at the playful exchange, but behind his calm demeanor, his mind was already racing.

He'd wanted this meeting for a long time.

As one of Europe's most powerful agents, Jorge Mendes had been in every kind of negotiation imaginable — transfers worth hundreds of millions, feuds between clubs and federations, even endorsement deals that made players richer than oil barons.

But this — sitting face-to-face with the man behind Leeds United's astonishing transformation — this felt different.

He'd seen what Arthur had done with the club. How he turned Leeds from an ambitious side into a ruthless, efficient machine, built around young talent that other clubs had overlooked.

And more importantly — Mendes knew who had been helping Arthur until recently.

Raiola.

That fat, loud-mouthed Italian who Mendes had once dismissed as a glorified amateur.

For years, Mendes had prided himself on professionalism — clean suits, clean deals, clean image. Raiola, on the other hand, looked and acted like a mafia uncle who stumbled into football. Mendes used to laugh about him with colleagues.

Until Raiola started making real money.

A fortune, actually — thanks to the string of young stars coming out of Leeds. Players Mendes had tried to approach, only to find that Raiola already had them under contract.

He'd done the math. He knew how much Raiola was earning from that partnership. And while the Italian might have denied it publicly, Mendes wasn't a fool.

There was no way that many promising youngsters — all perfectly suited to Leeds' style — just happened to end up there by luck.

Arthur Morgan was behind it.

Mendes's eyes flicked briefly to Arthur again, studying his calm expression. This was no ordinary coach. The man was a tactician, yes, but there was something else — an aura of control, like he saw five moves ahead of everyone else.

Mendes had seen it before — in moguls, in power brokers, in men who didn't just play the game but rewrote it.

And that was exactly why he wanted in.

He needed to build that bridge before someone else did.

A faint knock came from the door. The waiter entered quietly with a silver tray, placing steaming cups of coffee on the table. The rich aroma filled the room.

Mendes thanked him in fluent German, and the man smiled before retreating.

Arthur glanced at the cups, amused. "You really are committed to the coffee thing, aren't you?"

Mendes chuckled. "Force of habit. Business is easier when people have something warm to hold."

"I'll take your word for it," Arthur said, pushing his cup slightly aside. "I'm more of a tea man myself."

Simeone eagerly grabbed his cup. "Then I'll have his. Bless the Swiss."

Allen sighed, smiling. "You'll drink anything that's not English cafeteria coffee."

"Damn right," Simeone said, taking a long sip and groaning dramatically. "Heaven."

Arthur couldn't help but laugh, shaking his head.

Mendes took another moment to quietly observe them. The mood was relaxed, but he could feel the weight beneath it — that subtle tension of a meeting where every sentence could shape millions.

He'd spent years studying body language. The smallest gestures told him more than words ever could.

Arthur's confidence wasn't arrogance; it was focus. He spoke little, but his gaze was sharp — analytical. Simeone, the fiery assistant, provided warmth and humor, while Allen, the ever-diplomatic bridge, carried the professionalism that balanced the trio.

It was a good mix. Dangerous, even.

Mendes couldn't help but admire it.

And he knew exactly why he was here.

A few days earlier, Allen had reached out — politely but directly — suggesting a private meeting in Switzerland. No details, no names, no guarantees.

Most people might have hesitated. Mendes didn't.

He'd flown out two days early, preparing every possible scenario in his head. He didn't know what Arthur wanted — a transfer, a partnership, maybe a youth deal — but something told him this wasn't just another business chat.

The location alone told him plenty.

Interlaken. Remote. Neutral. Quiet.

Not London. Not Madrid. Not Lisbon.

When Arthur Morgan chose this place for a meeting, it wasn't random. It was deliberate.

And that realization sent a quiet thrill through Mendes.

Because if his hunch was right…

Today's business wasn't just another deal.

It might be the biggest opportunity of his entire career.

And for once, he wasn't going to let Raiola beat him to it.