Arthur finally managed to make Moratti relent with a price of eight million euros. It had taken nearly an hour of playful negotiation and backhanded compliments, but the old fox had caved with surprising ease. Now, all that remained was for the player himself to nod.

Arthur already had the rest mapped out in his head. Once the winter transfer window opened, he'd send Alan to Italy in person. By then, Balotelli would have figured out that Mancini was leaving at the end of the season. The kid might be stubborn, but he wasn't stupid. When the coach who'd frozen him out was gone, surely he'd realize where his future lay.

Hanging up with Moratti, Arthur wasted no time. He immediately called Alan.

"Send Inter another formal offer," Arthur said briskly. "Nine and a half million euros this time. Make it official—put it in their inbox before they can rethink anything."

Alan whistled on the other end. "Nine and a half? We're really going that high?"

"It's not about the money," Arthur replied. "It's about closing the door before Mancini gets nosy again. Do it."

Once Alan confirmed, Arthur leaned back in his chair and exhaled. One problem nearly solved, another waiting in line. Without missing a beat, he scrolled down his contacts and dialed Jorge Mendes.

The line rang twice before that smooth Portuguese voice answered. "Hello, Mr. Morgan!"

"You're too formal, Jorge," Arthur said, smiling despite himself. "Call me Arthur. I'm not your bank manager."

Mendes chuckled. "Fair enough. So what's the emergency this time?"

"No emergency," Arthur said, glancing at his watch. "Just a big deal I've lined up for you. Do you have time in about ten days?"

"Wait a moment," Mendes replied. Arthur could hear papers rustling, then the click of a laptop keyboard. "Let me check my schedule… alright, yes. Ten days from now, I'm free."

"Perfect," Arthur said. "Now tell me—do you know Massimo Moratti?"

"The chairman of Inter Milan?" Mendes sounded mildly surprised.

"That's him," Arthur confirmed. "He wants to meet you in Milan around the international break. Says he has something important to discuss."

"Milan?" Mendes repeated, clearly puzzled. "What on earth for? Mr. Morgan, may I ask—what player of mine is he interested in?"

Arthur couldn't help but grin. "Not a player," he said, voice calm but teasing. "Something far more interesting."

He let the suspense hang for a moment before continuing. "After this season, Inter probably won't renew Mancini's contract."

There was silence on the other end. Then Mendes' tone shifted—alert, sharp, suddenly alive. "Ah," he murmured, and Arthur could almost picture his raised eyebrow.

Jorge Mendes was no fool. The moment Arthur mentioned Mancini, he understood exactly what this "big deal" was about.

If Mancini was on his way out, then Moratti was obviously looking for a new manager. And in Mendes' portfolio, there was only one man big enough, brash enough, and talented enough to fit that bill—José Mourinho.

Arthur's tip was more than just good news; it was gold. Mendes had been trying to solve that particular headache for months.

Since the summer, Mourinho had been simmering with frustration. Every conversation Mendes had with him had turned into a therapy session—complaints about the Chelsea board, about the medical staff, about the constant interference from upstairs. The most recent one had been pure fire.

"He brings in Shevchenko without telling me," Mourinho had ranted. "Without telling me! It's like buying a piano and refusing to hire a pianist!"

Arthur could almost imagine Mendes remembering that outburst now.

The friction between Mourinho and Abramovich had been building for a while. The Russian billionaire, never one to hide his impatience, wanted more than domestic dominance. Two Premier League titles were nice, sure, but they weren't the Champions League trophy he craved. He wanted European glory and wanted it yesterday.

The problem? Mourinho refused to compromise. The man was proud to the bone, allergic to interference, and loyal only to his system. If Abramovich wanted flashy football, he could go buy himself a PlayStation.

And that was the heart of it. The relationship had turned from mutual admiration to a quiet cold war. Every transfer window became a power struggle, every board meeting a test of endurance. Abramovich pushed; Mourinho pushed back harder.

Mendes, caught in the middle, had been trying to broker peace for months. But deep down, he knew it was only a matter of time before something snapped. The manager's confidence had started to crack into irritation, and irritation into defiance.

So he'd quietly begun to look for a way out.

In theory, it should have been simple. Mourinho was one of the best coaches in the world. But the reality was messier. There were only a handful of clubs in Europe with the stature and budget to hire a man like him—and none of them had vacancies.

A coach wasn't like a player, after all. You couldn't just bench one and rotate another in. Top clubs had long-term plans and egos of their own. And Mourinho, for all his brilliance, came with baggage—a volatile temper, public feuds, and a tendency to burn every bridge he crossed.

Even with Mendes' influence, finding him a suitable next home had been a nightmare.

That's why Arthur's call hit like lightning out of a clear sky.

For the first time in months, Mendes could see a path opening—a legitimate, top-tier club actively looking for a head coach. Inter Milan wasn't just any club; it was a giant with history, trophies, and ambition. And better yet, Serie A football suited Mourinho's tactical instincts like a glove.

Arthur could almost hear Mendes' gears turning through the phone. The man was silent, but not out of confusion—he was already plotting.

*****

Thinking this through, Mendes spoke cautiously into the phone, his voice quieter than usual, almost as if he were tiptoeing around a room full of sleeping lions. "Mr. Morgan… do you mean to say… Moratti is on the lookout for a new head coach for Inter Milan?"

Arthur let out a short laugh, the kind that sounded calm but carried a sly undertone. "Yes, Jorge. That's exactly what I mean. And listen—Mourinho hasn't had the smoothest few months lately, has he? He's been juggling conflicts, drama, and the occasional temper tantrum, so I brought it up casually when I called Moratti. Surprisingly, the man practically jumped at the chance. He's willing to talk to you—maybe even immediately—after hearing the news."

There was a pause on the line, followed by Mendes letting out a small, almost audible whistle of astonishment. "That's… incredible! Mr. Morgan, you've just solved a massive headache for me! Honestly, I don't even know how to thank you for this one."

Arthur's grin spread through the room, the kind of grin that could make a boardroom feel like a soccer pitch on match day. "Oh, Jorge… isn't it simple to thank me? Just spend a little more time on Cristiano. Make sure he stays on the right path, and everything will be balanced."

Mendes chuckled, a full, warm laugh, the kind that comes from someone genuinely relieved. "No problem at all! I already have an appointment lined up with Cristiano's mother. Once she gets back to Portugal in a few days, I'll visit and talk things over personally. No worries there."

Arthur leaned back in his chair, satisfied. It wasn't just about Cristiano; it was about seeing the gears of his careful planning click smoothly into place. Mendes was proactive, attentive, and—most importantly—sincere. He didn't need Arthur breathing down his neck to make things happen; he had internalized the plan. That, in Arthur's mind, deserved a little reward.

"And there's one more thing," Arthur added, letting a small pause linger, drawing Mendes' curiosity higher. "I've finalized Leeds United's first transfer for the winter window. It's a solid one—Mario Balotelli. Italian. Young, talented… and if we're honest, a little unpredictable."

Mendes' tone immediately sharpened, a spark of recognition igniting his voice. "Ah, Balotelli! I know him well. Mancini's favorite, yes? Though I've heard he's… a bit casual with discipline. Kind of a free spirit, eh?" His voice carried that mixture of amusement and caution that only experienced agents develop when discussing a prodigious yet temperamental talent.

Arthur laughed lightly, the sound carrying a mix of fondness and strategy. "Exactly. That's the one. Initially, I thought I'd leave him in the hands of Raiola, but since you happen to be in contact, it'll be easier for you to take a direct approach when he arrives in England. A word from you might keep him grounded—and yes, convinced to follow the plan."

"Understood, Mr. Morgan! I'll make sure Cristiano's family won't throw any spanners in the works. I owe you one for this, and I'll handle it with full dedication." Mendes' promise sounded unwavering, and Arthur could hear it—he knew Mendes wasn't just mouthing empty words.

"Good. That's exactly what I wanted to hear," Arthur replied, letting the satisfaction linger in his tone. It wasn't about ego—it was about ensuring that every piece moved seamlessly, like a perfectly rehearsed chess game.

Early the next morning, Arthur decided to change his usual routine. Normally, he would have gone straight from his office to the training ground, reviewing tactics and line-ups on the way. But today was different. Today, he had a mission. He walked directly into the locker room, eyes scanning the players until he called out Camoranesi. Alone.

Last night, on the ride home, Arthur had thought a lot about Camoranesi. Deep down, he didn't really want to let him go. Leeds United wasn't the modest club it used to be, and for Arthur, supporting an experienced veteran with high professionalism wasn't a problem at all. If anything, it was an opportunity. Camoranesi could play multiple positions—right forward, right back, attacking midfielder—and that kind of flexibility was invaluable.

In Arthur's mind, Camoranesi wasn't just another player on the roster; he was a strategic asset, a rotation player who could fill critical gaps without disrupting the team's rhythm. He could imagine the veteran's calm presence stabilizing a shaky midfield, or his clever runs on the wing pulling defenses out of shape. Tactical depth was one thing; experience and reliability were another. And Camoranesi offered both.

Arthur also considered the financial angle, though he didn't voice it. The 32-year-old veteran wasn't going to command a huge transfer fee, and selling him would hardly make a dent in the club's finances. Keeping him, however, meant preserving not only tactical flexibility but also a hint of nostalgia—a touch of the old guard to guide the rising stars. There was something satisfying about that.

Of course, Arthur knew that the final decision didn't rest with him alone. Camoranesi's own intentions mattered more than strategy, money, or nostalgia. If the player had a burning desire to leave, then there was little Arthur could do but wish him well. But he also knew that a heart-to-heart conversation could sway minds, and he had every intention of having that talk.

The locker room was quiet except for the distant hum of the city outside. Arthur's footsteps echoed softly as he approached Camoranesi, who looked up with a mixture of curiosity and mild apprehension.

"Morning," Arthur said warmly, but with a tone that carried authority without pressure. "I wanted a word with you, just you and me."

Camoranesi nodded, sensing that this wasn't a standard tactical discussion. Arthur had a reputation for blending mentorship with strategy, and players quickly learned that these private conversations often carried weight beyond the immediate moment.

Arthur began by outlining his vision—not just for the team, but for Camoranesi himself. "You're versatile. Reliable. Experienced. Those qualities aren't just valuable—they're rare. Leeds United can invest in new talent, but someone like you… someone who can step into multiple roles seamlessly, that's gold. And I want you here, because you're part of that gold."

Camoranesi listened, absorbing every word. There was a respect in his eyes, a recognition that Arthur genuinely valued both his skill and his character. Arthur knew, however, that flattery alone wouldn't keep a man committed; understanding and trust were key.

He continued, adding a subtle but honest note: "Of course, if you really want to leave, I can't stop you. But you should know this—your experience, your leadership… it's not something I want to see walking out the door. And financially, it's no problem. The club can support you. Your role is secure."

The veteran's expression softened, and a small smile appeared. Arthur could tell the gears were turning. Deep down, Camoranesi appreciated stability, respect, and the chance to contribute meaningfully—things Arthur could offer in abundance.

Arthur leaned back slightly, giving the veteran a moment to reflect. "I want you to think about it. You're not just a player; you're a piece of the team's identity. That counts for a lot, and I hope it counts for you too."