Chapter 193: An Offer You Can't Refuse

*** Join my Patreon for Advance Chapters ( about 30 or so) and my other 3 stories Link is Below. Remove space after http. https:// www.patreon.com/c/Virtuosso777?redirect=true Leave some comments, stones and review if you like it so far. *** "You're joking, Mr. Morgan! This price is too low. The board of directors will never agree to it!" Galliani's lips jutted out dramatically like a toddler denied dessert. His head shook with exaggerated disapproval, his shiny dome of a forehead catching the café's soft lighting. For a man in his sixties, the pouty routine was bizarre—but the panic behind it was very real. Arthur raised an eyebrow, staring straight at the man across from him. For a moment, he was genuinely impressed Galliani had the guts to pull a cute act at his age. It was almost... endearing, in a strange, mafia-grandpa sort of way. But Arthur wasn't in the mood for theatrics. Not tonight. He gave Galliani a long, deliberate look, studying every flicker of his face to see if this was just another act—another layer of negotiation drama. But no, the old fox wasn't acting. He looked genuinely horrified at the offer. So Arthur leaned back slightly and pushed the ball back in Galliani's court. "Alright then, Mr. Galliani," Arthur said calmly, voice smooth as polished marble. "Tell me. What's your expected offer for Kaka? Give me a number. Let's see if I can satisfy you." Galliani didn't miss a beat. "Sixty million euros," he said immediately, as if it had been burning a hole in his mouth the whole evening. The words came out like a reflex. Arthur barely blinked. That answer had been ready for hours—maybe days. Clearly, they'd come to Switzerland with that number locked in from the very beginning. But sixty million? That was insane. Kaka wasn't some unstoppable, invincible midfield deity . He was still special, sure—but this price tag? This was Milan pricing in every goal he'd ever scored, every trophy he'd ever lifted, and every woman who ever swooned when he took off his shirt. Arthur didn't even bother replying right away. Instead, he gave Simeone a sly wink. The Argentine coach blinked, sat up straighter, then reached calmly into his briefcase. From it, he pulled out a padded leather sleeve and handed it over to Arthur with the kind of solemnity usually reserved for ceremonial swords or nuclear launch codes. Galliani squinted. "What's this now?" Arthur slid the laptop out, flipped it open with a satisfying click, and began tapping away. Then, without even looking up, he said in a slow, deliberate tone, "Mr. Galliani, let's be honest. Sixty million euros? That's way too much." "But Mr. Morgan, Kaka—" Galliani tried to interject, voice raised slightly as if that one name should justify the entire sum. Arthur didn't even glance up. Instead, he gave a quick shake of his head and casually raised his left hand—like a teacher signaling a student to zip it before they embarrassed themselves further. "Mr. Galliani," he said, now finally locking eyes with the Milan executive, "I'm not like you." Galliani blinked, confused. Arthur tapped the laptop screen and continued, "See, in addition to being Leeds United's owner, I also coach the team. That means when we talk about players, I don't deal in feelings or memories. I deal in data." Galliani glanced sideways at Ancelotti, clearly not expecting this turn. Arthur pressed on. "So before flying out to Switzerland," he said, still scrolling smoothly through pages of information, "I asked my staff at Leeds to compile a complete set of data on Kaka—every stat, every match, from his debut in 2003 all the way through to the game against Reggina two days ago." He turned the laptop slightly, just enough to show rows and columns of meticulously prepared graphs and figures. They were color-coded, timestamped, and clearly put together by someone who'd spent way too many nights in Excel. "We've got everything," Arthur added casually. "Goals, assists, threat passes, expected assists, total running distance per match, heatmaps, injury timelines—you name it." Then, leaning forward, he asked with a slight grin, "Would you like to see it?" Galliani's eyes grew wide. For a moment, he looked like he'd bitten into a lemon. "Uh... no, no," he said quickly, glancing again at Ancelotti for support. "Carlo and I already know all of that stuff. Very familiar." Arthur shrugged. "Alright." He picked up his cup of coffee, moved it aside, and gently set the laptop in front of Galliani, the display angled so it faced him fully. "Since you and Mr. Ancelotti know all this already," Arthur said lightly, "I won't go into the numbers again. But I'll ask you this..." He folded his hands, voice dropping just enough to sharpen the focus in the room. "With all this data laid out in front of us, Mr. Galliani, how do you justify saying Kaka is worth sixty million euros right now? On what basis?" Galliani opened his mouth, but Arthur cut in before he could even make a noise. "Keep in mind," Arthur added with a pointed look, "Real Madrid only paid seventy-six million euros for Zidane. And that was a guy who won the World Cup, the Ballon d'Or, the World Player of the Year, and could control an entire game while wearing moon boots." The silence that followed was awkward enough to be physically felt. Galliani, long known as one of football's most cunning negotiators, sat frozen. His mouth was slightly open, but no words were coming out. For once, the man who always had an answer—who could twist a transfer story into a novella of economic fiction—was just... stuck. Even Ancelotti looked mildly impressed. Or at least amused. "This..." Galliani finally said, voice soft and cautious, "This is... well..." Arthur didn't say a word. He just sat there, elbows on the table, staring directly at the man across from him. He'd landed a direct hit. Galliani wasn't used to buyers walking in with spreadsheets, references, and hard numbers. He was used to drama. To emotion. To waving golden names like flags and waiting for the cash to come pouring in. But Arthur? Arthur brought math. **** But this was still a negotiation, and Arthur knew it. Galliani wasn't going to give up that easily. The silver-tongued vice president of AC Milan exchanged a quick glance with Ancelotti, who gave a subtle nod in return. Then Galliani leaned slightly forward and cleared his throat like a drama teacher preparing for his monologue. "Mr. Morgan," he began, voice calm but firm, "I must admit, your analysis was... convincing. But Kaka is still very much in his prime. His importance to Milan is enormous, on and off the pitch. If we can't get the right price, then we'd rather keep him. There's still one and a half years left on his contract, and—this is important—he's leaning toward staying in Serie A. We're still hopeful of reaching a renewal." Arthur nearly rolled his eyes. This again? He leaned back slowly, letting a small, cold smirk tug at the corner of his mouth. The "let's test how dumb the buyer is" routine. It was classic Galliani—but Arthur wasn't some Premier League newbie fresh off the private jet. "Come on, Mr. Galliani," Arthur said, his voice now laced with sarcasm. "You really don't need to keep spinning the tale that Kaka doesn't want to leave Serie A. Let's be honest—we both know that's not true. He doesn't want to leave Milan. That's very different from not wanting to leave Serie A." He paused and leaned in a little, lowering his voice but sharpening his tone. "Let's not kid ourselves. Serie A isn't what it used to be. It's no longer the 'little World Cup' it once was. The era when every superstar wanted to play in Italy is over. Your league's pulling power has been steadily shrinking, and everyone in Europe knows it." Galliani shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Even Ancelotti looked down at his coffee cup, suddenly fascinated by the foam pattern. "Spain and England," Arthur continued, tapping the table for emphasis, "they're the future of world football. That's where the money, the talent, and the ambition are heading." He let that hang for a moment, then smiled faintly and added, "And I hear your boss, Mr. Berlusconi, wasn't exactly thrilled with Milan's financial reports last year. He's cut investment into the team, hasn't he?" Galliani's face tensed. Arthur had hit a nerve. "To be blunt," Arthur said, folding his arms, "can Milan even afford to pay Kaka the kind of wages he's asking for in this new contract? Honestly?" The café was warm, but Galliani's cheeks turned a distinct shade of pink. Whether from embarrassment or from the internal heat of frustration, it wasn't clear. His lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. His mouth moved, then paused, then tried again—like an old VHS tape stuttering on a scratched scene. Arthur sat back again, relaxed and calm, and with a faint smile spreading across his face. "Alright," he said, seizing the moment, "let me sweeten the pot a bit. I'll give you two options. Two offers. Take them back to Milan, talk them over with your board, and let me know what you decide." Galliani looked up cautiously. Arthur held up a finger. "First," he said, "50 million euros. I'll take Kaka to Leeds United after this season ends." He raised a second finger. "Second option—55 million euros. I take Kaka right now. Before the end of the winter transfer window." Galliani blinked. He hadn't expected this level of decisiveness. Arthur smirked, leaning in again. "Of course, you're welcome to shop him around. But let's be honest here—who else is going to beat this? Real Madrid's offer last time was what... thirty-something million?" That caught Galliani off guard. His eyes narrowed. "How do you know...?" he blurted, clearly rattled. "Mr. Morgan, how do you know the exact price Real Madrid offered?" Arthur smiled like the cat that had just swallowed a smug little bird. How did he know? Because Raiola had already wrung it out of Kaka's money-hungry agent like juice from a lemon. But of course, Arthur wasn't going to say that out loud. He merely shrugged. "Didn't I already tell you? The scouts I spend millions on each year aren't just standing around sipping espresso and watching Sunday league games." Galliani didn't answer. He just nodded slowly, his mind clearly spinning through possibilities and consequences. Arthur had taken the upper hand now, and Galliani knew it. After a moment of silence, the old Italian executive exhaled deeply and adjusted his scarf. "Alright, Mr. Morgan," he said. "I have to admit—this offer is... substantial. And very, very serious." "Glad we're on the same page," Arthur replied coolly. "But," Galliani added, holding up a hand, "as you already know, the final decision isn't mine alone. I'll need to speak to Mr. Berlusconi. He's the one who signs off on these things." "Of course," Arthur said smoothly. "I've always known who holds the real pen at Milan." The mood between the two finally softened a little. Galliani, now satisfied he had something worthwhile to take back to Milan, relaxed his posture and offered something Arthur hadn't expected—a bit of advice. "One more thing, Mr. Morgan," he said, voice low and sincere. "Even if we agree to sell him... you'll still need to convince Kaka himself. I've said it before—he's not exactly eager to leave Milan." Arthur didn't flinch. He simply smiled. He had already planned for this. And he was more than ready. "No problem, Mr. Galliani," Arthur said, his tone now easy and confident. "When the time comes to put pen to paper, I'll personally visit Milanello. You just make sure you cooperate when I get there..."