Chapter 87: Negotiations with Juventus

*** Join my Patreon for Advance Chapters ( about 40 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. Every 200 powerstones after first 200 would provide a bonus chapter. *** Early Wednesday morning, Arthur's phone rang before he'd even finished brushing his teeth. Groggy and still holding a toothbrush in one hand, he answered, expecting good news. It wasn't. "Boss," Allen said with a sharp sigh. "That meeting with Moggi? Disaster. Total disaster." Arthur blinked, suddenly wide awake. "Wait—what do you mean? I thought you were just going to wrap it up and bring Camoranesi home in a suitcase." "I waited an hour," Allen grumbled. "An hour. Sitting outside Moggi's office like I was applying for a loan. Then the guy finally walks in, acts like he's doing me a favor by breathing the same air, and the moment I say 'Camoranesi,' he shuts me down." "Did you at least give him the offer?" "Nope. Didn't even let me open the folder. He smiled—smiled!—and said 'no' before I could say a number. Then we exchanged five awkward sentences, and his secretary escorted me out like I'd just insulted his grandmother." Arthur sat on the edge of his bed, toothbrush still dangling from his mouth. "...You're kidding." "I wish. Look, if it's like this, maybe we skip the club and go straight to Camoranesi. Double his salary, let him apply some pressure from the inside. Let's see how Moggi likes that." Arthur was silent for a few seconds, seriously considering it. The old football playbook said that if a club wouldn't play ball, you knock directly on the player's door—with a sack of money and a vision of glory. But this wasn't just any player. It was Camoranesi. This was the guy who refused to abandon Juventus even when they were dropped into Serie B. The guy who dug in and fought instead of jumping ship. Arthur admired that sort of loyalty—so trying to force a move with backdoor pressure would probably just make things worse. Camoranesi would either get annoyed or dig in harder out of pride. So Arthur made a new call, one that would require charm, strategy, and hopefully a big enough plate of spaghetti to smooth things over. "Allen," Arthur said, now sounding calm and focused. "Book me a table in Turin. Somewhere nice. Then contact Giraudo and tell him I'm inviting him to dinner tonight." "You think the old executive will agree to a dinner date?" "He will if he's curious. Besides, I've got a better shot charming him over tiramisu than you did in Moggi's waiting room." Allen chuckled. "Fair point." As soon as Arthur hung up, he turned to Lina, who was already halfway through her second coffee. "Lina, plane ticket to Turin. I want to be there by tonight." She raised an eyebrow. "Another sudden European dinner date? You should get a loyalty card for this." Arthur grinned. "Just make sure I'm on that plane after training. If I'm going to win this guy over, I'll need a clean tracksuit and the appetite of a diplomat." By 2 o'clock, training was over, and Arthur was off—ready to wine, dine, and negotiate his way into Juventus' inner circle. Since the dinner with Giraudo was scheduled for 6 p.m., Arthur made sure to arrive early—very early. Out of pure courtesy (and just a little bit of nerves), he showed up at 5:30 sharp, dressed neatly, hair combed, shoes polished to the point they could blind someone under the chandelier light. Alan was right beside him, clearly less enthusiastic about sitting through a fancy Italian dinner with people who didn't seem to like them much. They were shown into a private box of one of Turin's top Michelin-starred restaurants. White tablecloths, wine glasses taller than a water bottle, and cutlery arranged like it was trying to spell something in Morse code. Arthur sat down, checked his watch, then checked the menu, then checked the door. Still no sign of their hosts. Meanwhile, in the backseat of a sleek black car heading toward the restaurant, Juventus executives Luciano Moggi and Antonio Giraudo were having a quiet but pointed conversation. "Luciano," Giraudo said, lowering the newspaper in his lap, "why is Arthur—this Leeds United owner—so fixated on Camoranesi? What exactly did that general manager of his offer yesterday?" Moggi blinked. A pause. Then a flash of panic shot across his face as he remembered yesterday's meeting. Oh no. "I... uh..." Moggi stammered. "I don't think I actually asked. I thought it was just another ridiculous Premier League lowball for one of our starters, so I rejected it outright." "You didn't even ask how much they were offering?" "I was trying to leave the office, Antonio! It was past seven, I was tired, and the guy didn't exactly win me over with charm. Plus, Camoranesi is not for sale, right?" Moggi quickly shifted gears and put on a calm face. "That's what I told him: he's not for sale. Not without your consent. So no matter the price, I said no." Giraudo slowly turned to look at him. That flat stare—the kind that said you absolute genius—settled into the air between them. He wasn't a fool. He'd already suspected something was off when his secretary told him the Leeds boss himself had flown in, reserved a table at one of the city's most expensive restaurants, and wanted to personally discuss a 'cooperation opportunity.' "Cooperation" his foot. Now it all made sense. Arthur wanted to buy Camoranesi, and Moggi had turned them down like a bad blind date—without even checking the menu. Giraudo sighed, rubbing his temple as the car pulled into the restaurant driveway. "Well," he muttered, "I hope the food's good tonight, because we've got some damage control to do." Giraudo was a businessman through and through—the kind who could probably sell sand to a beach if the margins made sense. Ever since taking over at Juventus, he'd thrown himself headfirst into transforming the club from a traditional football powerhouse into a modern commercial machine. Twelve-year kit deal with Nike? Done. Shirt sponsor handed to Sky Sports, the very same folks who owned the TV broadcast rights? Of course. That move alone earned him plenty of scorn from Italian football purists, some of whom practically burst into flames over it. Even a few Ranieris grumbled from their marble estates. But the results? Unquestionable. While other Italian clubs were stumbling around in financial fog, Giraudo had Juventus climbing the market value ladder like it was the Champions League final. In his eyes, the club was an asset to be optimized. As long as it didn't involve selling shares or actual ownership, anything was negotiable. Players, sponsors, naming rights—if the numbers worked, the deal was on the table. With that in mind, as the car rolled through Turin's twilight streets, Giraudo leaned back, crossed his arms, and silently calculated. If Arthur wants Camoranesi, how high is he willing to go? He nodded slightly to himself, lips twitching into a satisfied smirk. Decision made. He closed his eyes and stopped talking, already estimating the price tag he'd slap on the table later. Roughly fifteen minutes later, the sleek black car pulled up outside the restaurant Arthur had reserved. The polished brass nameplate glinted under the evening lights. Allen was already outside waiting, pacing like a man guarding a vault full of secrets. As soon as Giraudo and Moggi stepped out, Allen darted forward. He skipped right past Moggi like he didn't even exist and beamed at Giraudo. "Mr. Giraudo, thank you so much for coming," he said, bowing slightly and motioning toward the door. "I'm Allen, general manager of Leeds United. The boss is already waiting for you in the private box." Giraudo gave a polite nod, didn't bother wasting a second on small talk, and walked straight inside. Business was calling. The private dining room at the Michelin-starred restaurant was quiet, classy, and absurdly over-decorated—just the kind of place where you didn't dare sneeze too loudly for fear of knocking over a thousand-euro wine glass. Arthur sat on one side of the table with Allen, both dressed in sharp suits and trying to look far richer than they felt. Across from them, Giraudo had just arrived and was settling into his seat with a polite nod, Moggi following behind like an underpaid sidekick. After a quick round of pleasantries and obligatory handshakes, Arthur got straight to the point—no appetizer chat, no wine-fueled stalling. "Mr. Giraudo," he said with a smile that was part-friendly, part-business, "I'll keep it simple. We're here because we're serious about signing Camoranesi once the winter window opens. Allen told me Mr. Moggi didn't seem very... enthusiastic about our offer. Is it the price that's the problem?" Moggi, who had been trying to look relaxed and diplomatic, instantly tensed up. The corner of his smile twitched like someone had just stepped on his foot under the table. Internally, he screamed: What price? The guy never even got the chance to say a number before I waved him out! His brain raced to come up with a diplomatic expression, but he could feel the sweat forming. And now Arthur had publicly handed him the "grumpy obstructionist" role at this expensive dinner table. Brilliant. Why am I even here? Moggi thought bitterly. I should be in my office, not being blamed for a conversation I didn't even have. Giraudo, to his credit, kept a straight face. He knew exactly what Arthur was doing—pinning Moggi to the wall a little to give Allen some air. And honestly, Moggi deserved it this time. He'd bungled the meeting by dismissing Allen before even hearing the offer. Giraudo wasn't going to defend that. "Mr. Arthur," Giraudo replied smoothly, ignoring the implied jab at Moggi, "I completely understand your interest. Camoranesi is not only a core player for Juventus, but he's also a key figure for the Italian national team. From our perspective, the previous offer simply didn't reflect his current value." Arthur gave a polite nod, already expecting this response. He leaned forward slightly, still smiling but with a sharper glint in his eyes. "That's fair. We wouldn't want to insult Juventus or undervalue a player of Camoranesi's caliber. So we're prepared to raise the offer. On top of the original bid, we'll go up a little—9 million euros. How does that sound?" Across the table, Giraudo let out a soft hum and gave the kind of polite frown people make when someone offers them a slightly undercooked steak. "Mr. Arthur," he said carefully, "you may not know, but when we brought Camoranesi in, we paid nearly 9 million ourselves. With your current offer, Juventus would walk away from this deal without any profit." Allen glanced sideways at Arthur, sensing the conversation shifting into uncomfortable territory. Moggi, meanwhile, sat silently, staring at the wine bottle like it had betrayed him personally. Arthur's smile began to fade, just slightly. He didn't lose his cool, but the warmth in his tone cooled a degree. "I understand," he said slowly. "But that was then, Mr. Giraudo. You bought Camoranesi before he hit his prime. He's now 28, and while he's still top class, he's no longer a future prospect. We're offering you the same price you paid—so you're not losing value, you're trading fairly at peak." There was a quiet pause at the table. The air got just a little thicker. Giraudo leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, the beginnings of negotiation lines forming across his forehead. Allen looked like he was holding his breath. Moggi tried to drink his wine with the delicate touch of someone avoiding eye contact with everyone in the room. Arthur sat there calm, composed, but no longer grinning. He knew this was the point where the real negotiation would begin.