In a private estate in Madrid, deep within an underground wine cellar...
The room was lined with neatly arranged fine wines, and the rich scent of alcohol filled the air.
Dimly lit, the cellar had a single armchair and a small table in the center.
An elderly man sat there—black slacks, a blue dress shirt, glasses perched on his nose.Behind the lenses, his eyes remained sharp. Despite his age, his presence was commanding.
This was Florentino Pérez, forr president of Real Madrid—arguably the most influential football executive in history.
The legendary "El Presidente," the architect of the Galácticos.
He sipped from a glass of aged wine—his passion for collecting fine vintages matched only by his obsession with collecting football superstars.
To him, a football club must possess both competitiveness and comrcial appeal.Only then could it be called a true "giant."
Real Madrid's modern legacy had been built on that exact philosophy.
Despite the criticism, one thing couldn't be denied:
Real Madrid has always been at the heart of the footballing world.
In many ways, you can't talk about football without ntioning Real Madrid.
That was the legacy of a century-old club—And the lifelong pursuit of Florentino Pérez.
"A letter for you, sir."
An elderly butler stepped in, handing over an envelope.
There was no na. No return address. But Pérez imdiately knew who it was from.
Sunlight poured in through a small skylight above, illuminating the page as he unfolded the letter.
The first line made his brow twitch—but in the best way.
"To the greatest president the football world has ever known!"
Heh... heh heh heh...
Pérez couldn't help but chuckle as he read on.
"I was overjoyed to hear from you again. Perhaps this is fate—The best always recognize the best."
"Your approval ans more to than any award or accolade."
A flood of shaless flattery poured off the page—so exaggerated, so over-the-top, it made Pérez beam with glee.
After three years in political exile, it was like a surge of energy had returned to his aging body.
He loved the letter.And he loved the person who wrote it.
Back in Milan, at Šuker's villa...
Zorancic sat dumbfounded, staring at Šuker.
"You serious? That's just straight-up bootlicking!"
Šuker shrugged.
"So what? If kissing ass makes life easier, why not?"
So people, Šuker figured, were too proud for their own good.
They hit a few milestones and suddenly thought they could challenge anyone.
But let's be honest — if a little flattery could open big doors and bring more rewards, why wouldn't you?
Besides, Šuker needed Florentino's support right now.
He understood the man better than most:
Pérez was deeply egotistical.
Cristiano Ronaldo's departure from Real Madrid?
Sure, part of it was age. But more importantly, CR7 had started to threaten Pérez's authority.
Cristiano had several Ballon d'Ors by then — but Pérez didn't care.
He pulled the trigger anyway.
Šuker? He wasn't even near that level (yet).
So now was the ti to play nice — to build rapport.
Just so clever wordplay, no real cost.
"So…" Zorancic asked cautiously, "Did you ntion the Ronaldo thing?"
Šuker shook his head.
"Nope."
"What?!" Zorancic blinked. "That's super important — and you didn't say anything?!"
Šuker shrugged again.
"Florentino hates people who ddle in his decisions.I haven't even joined the club yet — if I start questioning transfers, how do you think that makes look?"
"But if Real go through with the CR7 deal—"
"They won't," Šuker said with full confidence.
"And why's that?"
Zorancic was baffled.
Šuker smiled:
"Because I've placed Cristiano Ronaldo firmly on the opposite side of Florentino."
"...What do you an?"
Šuker explained:
"Florentino and Calderón hate each other.Florentino wants .I told him in my letter that Calderón really wants Cristiano... and that it made sad."
Zorancic's eyes widened.
"So..."
"So think about it," Šuker said, grinning."You're Florentino. You want .
But your rival wants Cristiano.
What would you do?"
"I'd do everything in my power to sabotage that transfer!"
Zorancic finally understood.
"You're tying Calderón and CR7 together?"
Šuker grinned.
"The art of subtle suggestion."
Cristiano definitely wasn't going anywhere this season.
He was going to stay at United and chase the Champions League and personal glory.
By next winter break, Florentino would begin his coup against Calderón.
Ronaldo wouldn't transfer in January anyway.
By sumr, assuming things played out as expected, Calderón would be ousted —and Pérez would be back in charge, managing Šuker's transfer personally.
So Šuker's current objectives were twofold:
Push CR7 into Pérez's rival camp (Calderón's side).
Give Pérez a heads-up before Calderón can make a move.
That way, Pérez had both motivation and ti to block Ronaldo's deal.
To Pérez, Šuker was "his guy."Cristiano? Calderón's pawn.
Pérez would have every reason to block Ronaldo.
Of course, this was just strategy.
There was no guarantee it would all work out.
But the chessboard was set.
Worst case? Šuker could still go to Bayern.
They weren't as comrcially strong, but not a bad backup plan.
Lately, Šuker was feeling pretty optimistic.
Florentino's attention made the possibility of joining Real Madrid very real.
Previously, Calderón and Madrid had submitted a few tentative offers — more like probes.
They never really committed.
But now that Milan was clearly in decline, many top clubs were sniffing around.
Madrid included.
Did Calderón contact Ronaldo?
Šuker didn't know.
But it didn't matter.
Just hinting at it to Pérez was enough.
Even if the rumor was false, it'd still rattle him.
September 13th.
Milan players began returning from the international break.
But the injury bug had hit hard.
Pirlo got hurt during qualifiers — he'd be out for a while.
Just as the team was struggling, the news got worse:
Kaká ca back limping.
Šuker panicked and imdiately went to check on him.
"Where are you touching?!" Kaká yelped, swatting his hand away.
Šuker pulled back and looked at the bandages wrapped around Kaká's thigh.
"Phew… not the groin. Good."
"Groin again?!" Kaká snapped."Why are you always so obsessed with my groin?!"
"Just looking out for you," Šuker said innocently."Tear that muscle and your future happiness is gone."
"Get lost."
Kaká rolled his eyes.
Šuker sighed.
"It was already gonna be a tough match.Now you and Pirlo are both injured?"
This season was going to be a slog.
The team's form was already rocky — and now two of their key players were out.
Without Kaká and Pirlo, Milan's counterattack threat would plumt.
Šuker might not even see the ball up front.
"How long will it take?" he asked.
"Two to three weeks," Kaká said."Thigh strain. Just need so rest. Thankfully it's not serious."
Šuker grimaced.
"You went all-out again, didn't you?"
Kaká scratched his head.
"That's how the national team needs to play."
Šuker shook his head.
Kaká never took injuries seriously enough.
In the future, he'd play through pain, take injections, and make things worse.Eventually, he'd need surgery, his form would dip, and his club spot would be taken.
All of that — the domino effect of ignoring injuries.
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