"Serra?" Arthur blinked, staring at Alan as though he'd just announced that the moon had filed a transfer request. "You an Camoranesi? He actually handed in a transfer application himself? Why didn't he just co to ?"
Alan tried, and failed, to hide the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "He said he's afraid that if he talks to you in person, you'll persuade him to stay—and he'll regret it afterward."
Arthur nearly choked on air. "What's that supposed to an? Do I look like so kind of hypnotist? These applications all end up on my desk anyway!"
Alan chuckled, rocking back slightly on his heels. "You'll have to ask him that, boss. So… what do you think? Gonna talk to him?"
"Of course I am," Arthur replied imdiately, rubbing his temple before picking up the thin, cream-colored transfer form from the stack on his desk. He skimd the lines with a small frown, eyes narrowing at the crisp handwriting and the short, polite phrasing that made the request feel more formal than emotional. "But what do you think? Should we let him go?"
Alan had clearly seen that question coming. He clasped his hands behind his back in that half-military posture he always used when speaking to Arthur and said, without hesitation, "Honestly? I think it's fine. He didn't spell it out, but it's obvious—he wants more playing ti. And with Wesley, Kevin, Jas, and even Kaka rotating in that spot, it's a tough one for him. To be blunt, boss, he's kind of surplus right now."
Arthur sighed, the sound quiet but heavy, and drumd his fingers lightly against the polished surface of his desk. The faint tapping echoed in the room. "Yeah, I get that," he murmured. "But Serra can drop back to right-back when needed. He's a proper utility man, a dependable plug for leaks. I don't mind paying him a few million a year for that kind of flexibility."
Alan gave a small shrug, half-respectful, half-resigned, his expression the very picture of soone who knew when to leave tactical matters to the man paid to think about them. "I'll be honest, boss—I don't pretend to understand all the tactical stuff. Maybe you should run this by Diego or Ferreira?"
"Yeah," Arthur said after a pause, nodding slowly as he set the docunt back on the desk. "Good idea. I'll talk to them later. You go handle your part for now."
Alan took that as his cue. "Right away," he said, and with that, he turned and left the office, closing the door softly behind him.
The click of the latch left the room in silence.
Arthur leaned back in his chair and let out a long, asured breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The sunlight streaming through the tall windows slanted across the desk, catching the edge of the paper and turning the transfer request into a bright rectangle of reflection. The whole situation left a sour taste in his mouth. He'd known Serra wasn't entirely happy lately—his minutes had dwindled, his role had shifted—but a formal transfer request? That felt different. It felt final.
For a few seconds, Arthur stared at the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the air conditioner. The file cabinet in the corner stood half-open, the shelves filled with reports he hadn't yet read, scouting notes he ant to sort through before the next match. On another day, he might have gone straight back to work—studying Chelsea's latest matches, reviewing patterns, plotting the press and counter-press like an engineer fine-tuning a machine. But right now, his mind wasn't on Chelsea. He had more pressing problems.
A hole in midfield was one thing, but there was sothing else that had been gnawing at him—sothing beyond the pitch. The Inter Milan situation. That had been brewing for weeks in the background, quietly building pressure while everyone else seed to ignore it.
He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out his phone, and scrolled through his contacts. Nas flicked past—directors, agents, players—until he found the one he wanted: Massimo Moratti.
Even seeing the na made Arthur smirk faintly. The Italian oil magnate and owner of Inter Milan was a character, through and through—generous, passionate, impossibly enthusiastic when things went his way, and yet capable of sulking for days when they didn't. He was cheerful to a fault—unless, of course, you beat his team, in which case he could brood like a child who'd dropped his gelato on a hot sumr day.
Arthur pressed call. The phone rang once, twice, and then a booming, unmistakable voice burst through the speaker.
"Hello! Arthur! What brings you to my phone today?"
Arthur couldn't help smiling at the sound. "Good afternoon, Massimo. You sound in a good mood already—what's the occasion?"
"Ah, the team, my friend! La squadra! They're flying!" Moratti laughed heartily, his voice rich and alive, echoing slightly as if he were speaking from the middle of a marble hall. "The results have been wonderful lately. Mancini's over the moon. Honestly, I have to thank you. Both Edin and Jamie have been incredible. Mancini's been praising them non-stop, and so am I!"
Arthur chuckled politely, though inside, he felt the faint pinch of discomfort. Of course Moratti was happy. Inter had been on fire lately—he'd seen the highlights himself. Their form was undeniable. Since the start of the season, they'd only lost two matches: one to Roma in the Italian Super Cup and one to Fenerbahçe in the Champions League. Everything else? Pure montum. In the league, they were top of the table with six wins, three draws, and twenty-one points—comfortably ahead of Milan, who were limping along with barely ten.
Arthur leaned forward slightly in his chair, balancing the phone between shoulder and ear as his eyes drifted to the map of Europe pinned on the wall behind his desk. His gaze lingered on Italy, tracing the small blue flag he'd marked over Milan. It was hard to argue with results like that.
Inter hadn't yet faced Milan or Juventus, and everyone knew those fixtures would tell the real story—but right now, Moratti sounded like a man who believed his team could take on anyone, anywhere. And maybe, for once, he was right.
Dzeko and Vardy—the two players Arthur had loaned to him—were smashing it. In nine league gas, Inter had scored seventeen goals, and those two accounted for ten of them. Ten. Arthur almost had to laugh at the absurdity of it. Not bad for a duo everyone had dismissed half a year ago as makeshift reinforcents from the Premier League's fringes.
He could still rember the tone of disbelief in Moratti's voice when they'd first discussed the deal. The image ca to him vividly now: Moratti sitting in his grand Milan office, sunlight streaming through the tall windows, tapping his pen against the desk with that blend of suspicion and amusent he wore whenever Arthur proposed sothing unconventional.
"Two untested forwards from Leeds? Are you sure they're not part of your youth academy, Arthur?" Moratti had joked, his eyebrows raised in theatrical disbelief.
Arthur had laughed back then, deflecting with calm confidence, but he hadn't forgotten it. Now, though, the results spoke for themselves. Dzeko and Vardy had turned doubters into believers.
And now, both he and Mancini were eating those words.
*****
In the sixth round of the Serie A season, Inter had been losing to Roma away. It had started badly—sloppy defending, miscommunication in midfield, and a goal conceded before the fifteen-minute mark. The Stadio Olimpico roared with every Roma attack, a wall of red and gold energy pressing down on Mancini's n.
By halfti, Inter looked flat. Mancini's usual scowl had deepened into that familiar mask of frustration as his players trudged into the dressing room. He knew he had to gamble. So he did. He turned to his bench, saw the two nas that had barely seen action together, and decided it was all or nothing.
He threw on Dzeko and Vardy.
What followed was chaos—the best kind of chaos.
From the first whistle of the second half, the two lads played like n possessed. Roma's defense, so composed in the first forty-five minutes, suddenly looked like it had been hit by a thunderstorm. Dzeko bullied the center-backs with his strength and timing; Vardy tore through the lines like a lightning bolt, chasing every loose ball, every half-chance.
Within five minutes, Inter had pulled one back. Ten minutes later, they were level. By the ti the clock hit eighty, the stadium had fallen into stunned silence. Four goals—four!—between the pair in just forty-five minutes. The coback was so outrageous that by full-ti, the Italian dia had already found its headline: "The Roman Collapse."
The newspapers ran wild with it the next morning. Every outlet in Italy and half of Europe covered the story. Photos of Mancini celebrating on the touchline, arms in the air, tie flying loose, beca instant classics. Inter fans celebrated like they'd just won the Champions League final. The city was electric for days—car horns, fireworks, blue-and-black scarves hanging from balconies.
That single ga rewrote everything. Dzeko and Vardy were no longer experints—they were heroes. From that day on, they were starters. Poor Crespo, once untouchable, found himself warming the bench. Even old man Figo, the legend himself, was unceremoniously dropped to the sidelines.
Moratti, never one to waste an opportunity for humor, had joked with Mancini at training the next morning. "Looks like I need to steal Arthur's youth policy next," he'd said with a booming laugh, clapping the coach on the back while the caras clicked. Mancini had smiled, though everyone could tell he was half-pleased, half-annoyed that the credit was being shared.
But Arthur knew better than to get caught up in the headlines. He'd been in football long enough to understand the unspoken rule: when two young stars rise, soone else inevitably falls.
And in this case, that soone was Mario Balotelli.
Before Adriano's departure, Mario had been buzzing with excitent. He'd trained harder, spoken more confidently, even told friends that this was going to be his breakthrough season. With Adriano gone, the path was finally open—or so he thought.
But instead, he found himself buried under Dzeko and Vardy's sudden explosion of form. The timing couldn't have been worse. Inter's new heroes were undroppable. The press couldn't stop talking about them. And Mario? The poor lad hadn't even made the bench for the last two gas.
Arthur could picture it clearly—the young striker sitting in the stands, hoodie up, expression unreadable, the sa restless energy simring beneath the surface. He almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
As Moratti kept talking—boasting, really—Arthur only half-listened. The Italian's voice rolled on, filled with joy and self-congratulation, recounting each Inter victory as if he'd personally scored the goals himself.
Arthur leaned back in his chair, one elbow propped against the armrest, the other hand holding the phone loosely. He smiled faintly, though there was a bitterness to it. We definitely sold too cheap, he thought. The man's practically bragging about it now.
He let Moratti's exuberant comntary wash over him for a while—the goals, the clean sheets, the upcoming fixtures—until finally, after what felt like several minutes of uninterrupted celebration, the Italian paused for breath.
Then, his tone shifted.
"By the way, Arthur—you still haven't told why you called," Moratti said, amusent creeping into his voice. "Based on my experience, whenever you ring out of the blue, it's because you want sothing. Who are you after this ti, eh?"
Arthur chuckled softly, matching the man's playful tone. "Massimo, that's why I love talking to you. You always cut straight to the point."
"Flattery won't save you," Moratti shot back with a grin audible even through the line. "Spit it out—I'm five minutes away from knocking off. Make it quick before my wife drags to dinner."
Arthur laughed. The warm-up was over. It was ti for business.
"All right," he said, leaning forward. "I'll be straightforward. A while ago, Alan sent a formal offer to Inter Milan. But we were told it was rejected by you. He ca to today suggesting I ask you directly—did you actually see the offer?"
There was a brief silence on the other end, followed by Moratti's puzzled tone. "Offer? What offer?"
"An offer from Leeds United," Arthur clarified, his voice calm but asured. "We were told you turned it down."
"Turned it down?" Moratti repeated, sounding genuinely confused now. "Arthur, I haven't seen anything from Leeds! If your offer had reached , even if I wanted to reject it, I'd have called you personally."
Bingo.
Arthur's lips curved into a knowing smirk. Alan had been right all along—Moratti had no idea an offer had ever been made. Sowhere along the line, soone had intercepted it, buried it before it could reach the top.
The question was—who?
Arthur's mind went imdiately to Mancini. The man's image flashed in his thoughts: sharp suit, perfect hair, and that perpetually furrowed brow, like a man permanently two seconds away from complaining about sothing.
It would be just like him to ddle. Still… sothing didn't fit. Alan had told him not long ago that Inter weren't planning to renew Mancini's contract after the season. If that was true, and the man already knew his days were numbered, why would he care? Why block a deal that didn't even concern him anymore?
The thought gnawed at Arthur. It made no sense. Was it pride? Pettiness? So misplaced loyalty? Or maybe—Arthur thought grimly—it was jealousy. Maybe Mancini couldn't stand the fact that Leeds' academy products kept saving his job.
He frowned, fingers drumming lightly on the edge of his desk as he tried to make sense of it. Maybe the man's just lost it,he thought. Or maybe he's holding a grudge.
Moratti's voice cut back in, snapping him from his thoughts. "Well? What's this offer about?"
Arthur took a slow breath. He'd reached the mont of truth. No need to dance around it any longer. Ti to test the waters.
"Leeds wants to buy Mario Balotelli," he said carefully. "Alan made two offers already, both rejected—or so we were told."
There was a heartbeat of silence. Then, Moratti's voice suddenly leapt in pitch, brimming with surprise and excitent.
"Balotelli!! Are you serious!? Really!? Are you kidding !?"
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