"Don't get excited, don't get excited."

Arthur didn't expect Moratti's reaction to be that dramatic. The man sounded like he'd just caught a spy red-handed. Trying not to laugh, Arthur quickly added, "Massimo, I'm not like you. I wear two hats here — club owner and head coach! In our coaching circle, news like this always leaks out one way or another."

"Coaching circle?" Moratti barked. "Are you kidding me? What coaching circle?"

He sounded outraged, though Arthur could picture him half-smiling behind it. The Italian's voice rose theatrically as he declared, "Arthur, you're spying on other clubs' secrets! I'll report you to UEFA!"

Arthur almost choked on his coffee. "Oh, come on! Calm down, Massimo! If I were actually spying on Inter, do you think I'd tell you? Besides, Leeds doesn't need a new coach. We're not exactly plotting to overthrow the Meazza, are we? What's there to be so worked up about?"

But Moratti wasn't letting him wriggle away that easily. "Then tell me," he insisted, "how did you find out about this?"

Arthur sighed. Of course he'd ask that. The man was too curious for his own good.

"It's not important," he replied, waving the question off like an annoying fly. He shifted tone — smooth and casual, the way a poker player changes the subject after a risky bluff. "Actually, the reason I asked is because I was wondering if you've picked your next head coach yet. We're friends, right? If you haven't, I might have a recommendation you'll love."

Moratti hesitated, suspicion flickering through his voice. "A recommendation? You?"

"Sure, why not?" Arthur grinned, leaning back in his chair, enjoying how easily the bait had been taken.

Even though Moratti could tell Arthur was changing the subject, the idea hooked him anyway. That was the thing about Massimo Moratti — curious as a cat, sentimental as a poet, and about as resistant to temptation as a kid in a candy store.

Besides, Arthur had made sure to sound disarmingly genuine. There was nothing in his tone that hinted at manipulation — just friendly football talk between two club bosses.

Moratti muttered something to himself before replying, "You're not exactly in a position to threaten us, Arthur. Leeds doesn't need a head coach, so I know you're not plotting anything there."

Exactly. That was what Arthur wanted him to think.

The truth was, Arthur couldn't care less about Inter's next manager — except for one thing. The quicker Moratti moved on from Mancini, the easier it would be for Arthur to get what he wanted: Balotelli.

Moratti cleared his throat. "Well then, who do you recommend? Don't tell me it's one of your two assistants."

Arthur chuckled. "What are you thinking, Massimo? Diego and Ferreira are my right-hand men. My brain trust! You can't expect me to gift-wrap them for you."

"Don't play coy," Moratti shot back, half-laughing, half-serious. "Tell me, or I will report you to UEFA!"

Arthur couldn't hold it anymore and burst out laughing. The mental image of Moratti marching into UEFA's office to complain about a 'coaching circle conspiracy' was too much.

"All right, all right," Arthur said, finally catching his breath. Then he leaned in — not that Moratti could see it, but the tone shift was unmistakable. His next words came out slower, deliberate, almost teasing. "Jose Mourinho. Ever heard of him?"

The effect was instant.

On the other end of the line, the background noise — faint shuffling, the sound of a chair creaking — went dead silent.

Moratti didn't say a word.

Arthur smiled. He could feel the reaction even through the static. That was the beauty of timing — drop the right name, and the silence that follows tells you everything you need to know.

Truth be told, Arthur's plan was already spinning several steps ahead.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

If Mancini wouldn't budge on selling Balotelli, then fine — he'd make sure Mancini didn't last long enough to stand in the way. And if Moratti was going to drag his feet about replacing him, then Arthur would help him along.

It wasn't sabotage. It was strategy — football politics at its finest.

Moratti was famously loyal to his managers, but also famously weak to new ideas — especially when those ideas came wrapped in charisma and brilliance. And Mourinho had both, in terrifying abundance.

The man was a walking headline, a master tactician, and had the kind of arrogance Italians secretly adored. In the right light, he could make any club owner dream of glory all over again.

If Arthur could plant the seed early, that dream would take root. Moratti wouldn't even realize it was his idea.

And once that happened, Mancini's days would be numbered — his authority weakened, his voice diminished, his hold over Balotelli gone.

It was, Arthur thought with no small amount of satisfaction, the perfect play.

He leaned back in his office chair, listening to the faint hum on the other end of the line. He could picture Moratti sitting at his desk — eyebrows knitted, mind racing, probably mouthing Mourinho's name to himself.

Arthur grinned to no one in particular. "Got him," he muttered under his breath.

*****

After what felt like an eternity of silence, Moratti's voice finally drifted back through the line—calmer now, softened with curiosity.

"Arthur," he said, his tone thoughtful, "to be honest, I don't know much about this Mourinho fellow. Is he really suitable to be the head coach of Inter Milan?"

Arthur couldn't help but smile. He could already tell what Moratti was getting at. "So… you want my advice, then?" he asked lightly, leaning back in his chair with a grin that the Italian couldn't see.

"Yes," Moratti admitted after a small pause, his voice carrying that familiar mix of pride and uncertainty.

Arthur chuckled. "Didn't I already give it to you? Massimo, come on—we're friends. You know I wouldn't steer you wrong. If I didn't think Mourinho was the right man for the job, I wouldn't have brought him up at all."

There was a brief silence, broken only by the faint hum of the line. Then Arthur went on, tone turning serious. "Listen to me—if you sign him, Inter's performance will skyrocket in no time. That man doesn't just manage; he transforms teams. You've been chasing the Champions League dream for years now, haven't you? Always so close, but never quite there since the reform. With Mourinho in charge, I'll bet anything you'll make it to the final at least."

Moratti made a skeptical noise. "Only the final? Why not the championship?"

Arthur's grin widened into a teasing smirk. "Well," he said, voice low with mock solemnity, "what if you meet my Leeds United in the final, eh? Then, my friend, I'm afraid I'll have to win."

"Ah, come on!" Moratti groaned, half-laughing, half-fuming. "Why didn't I realize before that you're this insufferable!?" He sounded genuinely exasperated, though Arthur could hear the amusement underneath.

Arthur laughed heartily, nearly spilling the coffee on his desk. "I'm just telling the truth, Massimo. It's not my fault Leeds is the best!"

"I swear, if you were sitting across from me right now, I'd grab you by the collar!" Moratti grumbled, though the warmth had returned to his tone.

"Okay, okay," Arthur said, finally calming down and dropping the playful act. "All jokes aside—you should really consider it. I'm serious this time."

On the other end, Moratti went quiet again. He didn't doubt Arthur's words; not when they were spoken in that tone. And truth be told, Mourinho's résumé spoke for itself. Two straight Premier League titles, consistent Champions League runs, and a reputation for turning ordinary teams into fortress-like powerhouses—it all sounded exactly like what Inter needed.

Inter's defense had always been proud, but lately, they'd been leaking goals at bad times. The team was strong, yes, but not as organized as it used to be. A manager like Mourinho, who could whip even a mid-table squad into a disciplined machine, sounded ideal for Serie A's tactical grind.

Moratti was quiet for a few beats before asking, his curiosity piqued, "But is he even willing to come? I've heard stories about him. The man's got full control at Chelsea, and Abramovich trusts him completely."

Arthur leaned back, smirking knowingly. "That's past tense, my friend," he said casually, as though sharing gossip over a drink. "You might want to double-check that. Chelsea's success over the past few seasons inflated Abramovich's ego a bit too much. The man's been meddling in transfers again—brought in Shevchenko without Mourinho's consent last year. You can imagine how well that went down. Mourinho's been fuming ever since."

Moratti gasped. "Really?"

"Really," Arthur said, almost enjoying how stunned Moratti sounded. "And this summer? Abramovich ignored his entire recruitment plan. Completely dismissed him. The two are barely on speaking terms. You can take it from me—things are crumbling between them."

"Damn it!" Moratti exclaimed, his voice rising an octave. "Do you have an intelligence team working under you? Why do you know everything before the rest of the world does!?"

Arthur laughed, the sound rich with mischief. "Now, now, that's not important," he said with mock modesty. "Let's just say I keep my ear to the ground. And if you're seriously interested in Mourinho, I can help you make the connection."

"You?" Moratti said incredulously, as if Arthur had just claimed to be related to the Pope. "You're going to play matchmaker now? Don't lie to me—I read the papers! Weren't you and Mourinho feuding last year? When did that turn into a friendship?"

Arthur scratched his chin, chuckling softly. "Well, I wouldn't go so far as to say he and I are close," he admitted, "but his agent—Mendes—is someone I happen to know quite well. Let's just say we've done business before, and we get along."

"Hah!" Moratti barked, the laugh echoing faintly through the line. "Of course you do. You seem to know everyone in football! All right then, Arthur, since you've already brought it up—help me make that connection. If Mendes is open to it, tell him to arrange a meeting. I'll be in Milan during the international break. If Mourinho's willing, we can talk face-to-face."

Arthur's grin widened. This was going even better than he'd expected. He'd planted the seed, and now it was starting to take root. "Consider it done," he said easily. "I'll give Mendes a call and see what he says."

Moratti, sounding pleased with himself now, added with a booming laugh, "Good! But don't think I don't see through you, you sly fox. You're trying to butter me up because you still want to buy Balotelli, aren't you? Well, let me warn you—if you want him, you'll have to come with a proper offer this time! None of that penny-pinching nonsense! Otherwise, even if you hand me Mourinho himself on a silver platter, I'm keeping Balotelli! Hahahaha!"

Arthur couldn't help but laugh along, shaking his head at the old Italian's energy. Moratti's laughter rolled through the phone like a storm, the kind that could light up a room—or, in Arthur's case, his whole office.

There it was again—that sharp, playful wit hidden beneath layers of businessman charm. Moratti might be sentimental, maybe even indecisive at times, but moments like this reminded Arthur why he liked the man. Beneath the oil tycoon exterior and the larger-than-life persona, there was still that passionate football romantic, the one who believed in his players, his team, and the game itself.

Arthur leaned back in his chair, still chuckling softly as Moratti's laughter echoed in his ear. "Don't worry, Massimo," he said with a grin, "you'll get your sincerity. I'll make sure of it."