Chapter 90: Be prepared for what's coming

Hearing Arthur's proposal, Raiola nearly choked on his cappuccino. He managed to cover it with a polite cough, but in his mind, alarm bells were going off like a fire drill in a bakery. This guy's serious? Zlatan? Leeds? Trying not to look too stunned, Raiola rubbed his chin, buying himself a few seconds to think. He knew Ibrahimović better than most people knew their own cousins. Zlatan didn't care much for money—he already had mountains of it. What he cared about was status, ego, trophies, and walking into dressing rooms like a lion entering a zoo. A team without Champions League football? At his age? That was like asking a Ferrari to join a scooter club. Still, Raiola didn't want to crush Arthur's enthusiasm outright. After all, the kid clearly had guts. So he chose his words carefully. "Mr. Morgan," he began, his tone friendly but cautious, "I appreciate your ambition. Truly. But... based on what I know about Zlatan, I think you might be overestimating how far money can take this conversation." Arthur raised an eyebrow, still listening. Raiola continued, "Zlatan's not someone you can lure with just a big paycheck. At this point in his career, he wants Champions League football—he lives for the big stage, the spotlight, the pressure. Leeds United... as promising as your project is, you're not there yet." Arthur nodded slowly, not offended, just calculating. "And," Raiola added, lowering his voice a bit like he was about to reveal the price tag on a priceless antique, "there's another thing. Juventus didn't exactly get him for free. They paid sixteen million euros to bring him over from the Netherlands. If you really want to take him to Leeds, you'd better be ready. It won't be cheap." He gave Arthur a knowing look and leaned back, waiting to see how serious this young manager really was. Even if Raiola hadn't brought it up, Arthur had already thought it through. He didn't flinch. He leaned in slightly with a sly grin on his face and said in a hushed, mysterious tone, like he was sharing state secrets, "Don't worry about that, Mr. Raiola. If Leeds United aren't in the Champions League next season, I wouldn't even bother offering Zlatan a contract." Raiola nodded, that part made sense. But then Arthur added, "As for the transfer fee... let me tell you a little gossip, off the record. In a few months, something might go down in Italian football. You might want to... prepare yourself in advance." That part left Raiola blinking like someone had just switched the subtitles off mid-film. He understood the words, sure—but the meaning? Not a clue. Italian football? Something going down? Was it a scandal? A war? A surprise pizza tax? Before he could open his mouth to ask, Arthur calmly raised his hand with that same playful smirk. "Mr. Raiola, I know what you're thinking," he said. "But let's not get too ahead of ourselves. I really can't say more about it right now. Let's stay on topic—Zlatan." Then Arthur dropped the real bait. "I won't let you do this for nothing. If you can convince Zlatan to come to Leeds, not only will I pay you a very generous fee..." Arthur paused dramatically. "...I'll also help you get in touch with some incredibly promising young talents. Most of them don't have agents yet. You could be the first to sign them." For a second, Raiola's eyes actually sparkled. That vague cloud of confusion from earlier cleared out like fog under a hairdryer. Arthur's words had hit him square in his soft spot. It was like offering a pirate a treasure map with bonus gold on the side. He'd been eyeing Leeds United's youth recruitment for months now—those players had potential spilling out of their boots. And the thought of being the agent behind the next generation of stars? That wasn't just business. That was legacy. Ecstasy rushed into Raiola's heart so fast, it was a miracle he didn't float off the chair. He tried to play it cool, nodding slowly, but inside he was already mentally drafting contracts and dreaming of future commissions. Arthur had him. For a man like Raiola—who treated being a football agent like a sacred calling—nothing could make his heart flutter faster than hearing that a whole squad of talented players didn't have agents yet. His eyes widened like saucers. He leaned forward, voice full of disbelief, "Really? Mr. Morgan, are you messing with me?" This was the same Raiola who had sworn up and down he never got cozy with club owners. The man had rules. Standards. A moral code—or at least a marketing slogan. And yet, in this moment, all that philosophy went out the window faster than a bad transfer rumor. Arthur nodded with the kind of seriousness usually reserved for national addresses. "Of course it's true," he said, his tone calm and confident. "I believe those boys will go further with an agent like you guiding them." And just like that, the hook sank in. Raiola sat back, speechless for a moment, his mind already spinning. No more cold calls to scout U-19 matches in the rain. No more chasing whispers from Eastern Europe about some kid who could dribble past trees. Arthur had just offered him a golden shortcut: direct access to a pipeline of wonderkids, personally scouted and groomed by one of the most unpredictable and profitable young minds in football. What was he supposed to do—say no? Years later, football history would prove Arthur absolutely right. That meeting, over cappuccinos and a pot of hotel tea, would quietly spark one of the most powerful partnerships in the transfer market. With Raiola handling the players, and Arthur pulling the strings behind the scenes at Leeds, the deals just kept rolling in—big names, big profits, and bigger ambitions. But on that morning in Turin, it was just the beginning—two men shaking hands over a mutual love of talent, money, and a slightly ridiculous amount of confidence. After a hearty lunch with Raiola—which, knowing Mino, probably involved five courses, three espresso shots, and a half-hour speech on why agents deserve statues—Arthur flew back to Leeds feeling like he'd just made a deal with the football devil himself. The second his plane touched the tarmac, his phone buzzed. It was Allen. "Boss, it's done. Camoranesi's coming." Arthur nearly dropped his carry-on. Apparently, things got a little dramatic. Camoranesi, proud as ever, had insisted on staying at Juventus. After all, they were in the Champions League Round of 16, and he wasn't exactly dying to swap that for freezing Yorkshire evenings and Championship flashbacks. But then Juventus kindly reminded him that they were selling him whether he liked it or not. And once Allen dangled an offer of €85,000 per week, Camoranesi blinked once, called his agent, and accepted before someone changed their mind. Arthur was thrilled. With Camoranesi locked in, the second half of the season suddenly looked a lot less terrifying. The squad was more or less complete, and he finally had enough depth to rotate players without risking throwing in some teenager who still needed GPS to find the halfway line. The next two days were a blur of drills, shouting, set-piece rehearsals, tactical board arguments, and trying to keep everyone healthy. The medical staff had the expressions of people who knew war was coming. And then came Saturday: Leeds United vs Manchester City at Elland Road. It was the last match before the January transfer window opened. That meant it was the last dance for Deisler and Chiellini, who were both packing their bags for new clubs. But Arthur wasn't about to let them jog around like tourists on their final day. His logic was brutal and simple: "If I'm still paying you, you're still clocking in." So into the starting lineup they went. Manchester City had been decent early in the season—at one point they'd somehow found themselves in the top four, which was frankly suspicious—but lately they'd fallen off a cliff. A series of losses had dragged them down to mid-table, and the mood in the away camp was grim. Even the mascot looked depressed. Arthur, the coaching staff, the press, and most fans assumed Leeds would breeze through this one. On paper, it looked like an easy win. Reality had other ideas. By the 30th minute, Leeds were down 0–3. At home. To Manchester City. The crowd at Elland Road was in stunned silence. Arthur stood on the touchline looking like he'd just been slapped with a cold fish. Every time City touched the ball, it turned into a goal or a chance. His defense was in shambles. His midfield looked like they were playing Minesweeper. Up front, his strikers couldn't hit the side of a barn. At halftime, the dressing room turned into a warzone. Arthur didn't throw boots—he threw words. Sharp, vicious, soul-crushing words. He ripped into every player in sight. Chiellini got roasted for acting like he was already in Italy. Deisler got an earful for moving like a man who'd just discovered gravity. Arthur's voice echoed through the walls like a fire alarm. By the end, half the squad looked like they'd aged ten years. Some might've even googled "how to break contract politely." But somehow—it worked. The second half kicked off, and it was like someone had replaced the team with their competent twin brothers. Leeds came out blazing. In just 15 minutes, they launched a wild assault, scoring three quick goals to tie the game 3–3. The fans went from despair to delirium in record time. Sensing blood, Arthur made his move. He threw on Gareth Bale, who had just recovered from injury and was itching to make his return. And oh, did he deliver. In the 80th minute, Bale got the ball outside the City box, took one touch, looked up—and smashed a thunderbolt of a shot straight into the top corner. The crowd exploded. The net probably still has trauma. Leeds 4, Manchester City 3. A complete second-half comeback, capped off with a world-class goal. As if that wasn't enough, both teams above Leeds lost their games that weekend. Which meant, somehow, against all odds, Leeds United had clawed their way into the Premier League top four. Arthur stood on the touchline at full-time, hands in his coat pockets, watching the celebrations. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. The table was starting to reflect the madness behind the scenes. And the best was yet to come. **Had to cut out a part due to bullshit of media calling it chinese derby and adding china player to Man City and some other garbe???? Seriously, wtf ! ***