"Boss, our opponents are coming."
Arthur was jolted out of his thoughts by Simeone's gentle reminder. He turned his head and spotted two familiar figures making their way across the venue toward them: Joan Laporta and Frank Rijkaard.
Among the sea of dignitaries and football bosses—most of whom were either white-haired or rapidly going that way—Laporta and Rijkaard stood out. Both were in their mid-forties, full heads of dark hair, and still had the kind of youthful sharpness in their eyes that could cut through a boardroom full of UEFA jargon.
Aside from Arthur himself, they were easily the youngest pair in the room.
As the Barcelona delegation arrived, Laporta was the first to extend his hand, smiling warmly.
"Good evening, Mr. Morgan."
Arthur stood up and returned the handshake without hesitation. "Good evening, Mr. Laporta."
Rijkaard stepped forward next, offering a friendly nod. "Good evening, Arthur."
"Evening, Frank," Arthur replied, shaking his hand as well.
Simeone, ever the professional, also stood up and greeted both with polite handshakes.
The introductions done, Arthur let his eyes flick toward the large projection screen behind them—the one now proudly displaying:
Barcelona vs. Leeds United.
He let out a sigh, half-mocking, half-genuine, then gave a helpless shrug in Laporta's direction. "So… Mr. Laporta, did you come over to console me or just to gloat?"
Laporta followed his glance to the screen and chuckled. "Ah, no, no. Nothing like that," he said, smiling with a mixture of awkwardness and amusement. "Last time you visited Barcelona, your schedule was too tight. Frank here's been grumbling ever since that I never told him you were coming. Said he would've come to meet you at the club if I'd given him a heads-up."
Rijkaard gave a sheepish shrug. "Guilty as charged."
Laporta continued, "We were actually coming over to say hi earlier, but you looked busy chatting with Ferguson and Perez. So we waited."
He laughed lightly, though there was a flicker of irony in his voice now. "And now… well, it seems we're officially enemies next month."
Arthur chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, who would've thought? The draw gods really know how to stir the pot."
Meanwhile, Simeone was catching up with Rijkaard about something in Spanish—possibly reminiscing about old coaching battles or dinner bill disputes. After a minute or two, Rijkaard turned his attention back to Arthur with a mischievous smile.
"Arthur, I've got a bone to pick with you," he said.
Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Oh? What did I do this time?"
"You stole a player I had my eye on," Rijkaard said, mock-accusingly, folding his arms like a disappointed schoolteacher.
Arthur blinked. "Wait… what?"
He turned to Simeone, then back to Rijkaard, utterly confused. He couldn't for the life of him think which Leeds player Barcelona might've wanted before he came along.
Laporta laughed and stepped in. "Looks like De Nildo forgot to mention it. Frank wanted Alves last year, but Sevilla turned us down."
Arthur's mouth made a silent "oh" before he nodded slowly. "Right… Dani."
Now it made sense. Back then, Barcelona hadn't managed to pull the trigger on the transfer. Everyone thought they were waiting for Guardiola's reign to begin before making big signings, but apparently Rijkaard had already marked Alves as his man.
"Well," Arthur said with a sympathetic shrug, "he's ours now. And next month, he'll be on the Camp Nou pitch… wearing white."
He glanced behind Laporta and Rijkaard, toward Calderón, who was deep in conversation with someone by the champagne table.
"Hah," Arthur smirked. "Honestly, Frank, I was quite happy with Maicon. But you know how it is—some people start pulling strings behind the scenes."
Rijkaard followed Arthur's gaze and let out a low chuckle. "You're telling me."
"Arthur! Dinner's about to start. Are you joining us?"
The familiar voice of Fiorentino Pérez cut through their conversation like a perfectly-timed substitution. Arthur turned and saw him walking toward them, Ferguson at his side with a knowing grin.
Laporta and Rijkaard both turned as well, clearly not thrilled by the interruption. Whatever warmth they had for Arthur and Simeone did not extend to their grizzled rival who now watched football matches from a throne of legacy and archives.
They gave Pérez and Ferguson a polite nod, then turned back to Arthur. Rijkaard offered a parting handshake.
"Looking forward to that match," he said, eyes gleaming.
"Likewise," Arthur replied with a wry smile.
The Barcelona duo gave Simeone a nod before making their way toward another cluster of UEFA officials, leaving Arthur with the two elder statesmen of football politics.
But Arthur had no intention of sticking around.
"No can do, Mr. Florentino," he said, checking his watch. "Diego and I are already late for the airport. Alan—our logistics genius—thought it'd be clever to book us a return flight tonight."
"Tonight?" Ferguson arched an eyebrow. "Who flies out of Zurich at night unless they're being extradited?"
Arthur let out a sarcastic laugh. "Apparently us. I should've known better than to leave the travel arrangements to a man who once thought Heathrow and Gatwick were the same airport."
"Amateurs," Simeone added with a mock sigh.
"Well, travel safe," Pérez said. "We'll see you again soon."
After a round of quick goodbyes and firm handshakes, Arthur and Simeone made their way toward the exit, leaving behind the posh chaos of the Champions League draw and the wheeling-and-dealing elite of European football.
As they walked briskly out of the building, Arthur muttered under his breath, "Barcelona, huh? Simeone, remind me to never trust a draw ceremony ever again."
Simeone nodded. "Next time, we bring our own ping-pong balls."
Arthur laughed.
And just like that, the two vanished into the Swiss night—off to catch a flight, plan a strategy, and prepare for the chaos that would surely unfold next month at Camp Nou.
****
An hour later, in a dimly lit, out-of-the-way café on the outskirts of Zurich, the kind of place where the wallpaper hadn't changed since the Cold War and the coffee tasted like it had been brewed from roasted secrets, Arthur and Simeone were seated in the farthest corner. You'd think they should be at the airport by now, boarding their flight like responsible professionals. But no—they were parked here with steaming cups of espresso and a suspiciously enthusiastic guest.
That guest was none other than Mino Raiola, the man who could turn contract clauses into gold. He was positively glowing, smiling like he'd just won the lottery and waving his stubby hands as he rattled on about a recent transfer deal.
"After tax, I cleared nearly three million euros, Mr. Morgan," he beamed proudly.
Arthur choked on his coffee. "What? Three million?! Laporta was that generous?"
The disbelief in his voice wasn't theatrical—he genuinely looked like someone had just told him Santa Claus was real and lived in Catalonia.
The conversation had taken this turn after a bit of casual back-and-forth. They'd been chatting about the football business, laughing at old war stories, when Arthur, suddenly curious, asked how much Raiola had made from Radamel Falcao's last transfer. And, to Raiola's credit, he hadn't dodged. He'd delivered the number straight, no fluff, with an after-tax cherry on top.
Three million euros.
Arthur was still trying to wrap his head around it. Raiola, sensing the moment, leaned in a little closer and grinned.
"It's all thanks to you, Mr. Morgan. If it weren't for your coaching and Mr. Allen introducing me, I'd never have pulled in that kind of payday. When I took Zlatan to Juventus? Only made a measly hundred thousand. Before tax!"
Now it was Simeone's turn to shake his head in mock frustration.
"Boss, I'm switching careers. I wanna be an agent. Don't let Mino here snatch up all the academy talent—give them to me instead!"
His exaggerated pout made Arthur snort into his cup, while Raiola burst out laughing, shaking his head.
"Get lost!" Arthur replied, smirking. "If you behave, I'll give you a raise at the end of the season. Double your current salary, sound good?"
Simeone's eyes widened like a child seeing their birthday cake. "Seriously?!"
He dove into his coat pocket and whipped out his phone like a gunslinger. "Say that again. I'm recording it."
Arthur was just about to roll his eyes when the soft sound of wind chimes suddenly rang out from the front door of the café—a gentle, melodic jingle that didn't quite fit the place but somehow managed to silence the table.
All three turned toward the door.
Two mysterious figures stepped inside. They weren't just wearing coats—they were draped in identical long black fur coats that made them look like villains from an old noir film. Each wore a wide-brimmed hat, pulled low to obscure their faces, and together they seemed to bring a gust of cold Zurich air into the room.
The first figure stepped forward and paused just inside, scanning the café with keen, calculating eyes. They moved slowly, deliberately, taking in every table, every face—until their gaze finally locked onto Arthur's table.
No words. No waiter. No hesitation.
They walked straight toward them.
Raiola's expression changed instantly. The smooth confidence was replaced with something more formal—respectful, even. He rose quickly from his seat, nearly knocking over his chair in the process, and rushed forward to greet them.
He pulled out two chairs, his usual grin now replaced with a more professional smile.
"Gentlemen," he said warmly, shaking hands with both men. "Please, right this way."
The two strangers nodded. The man in front turned to Arthur, who remained seated, unbothered. There was no sign of offense on the newcomer's face. Instead, he removed his hat in a single elegant motion.
A polished bald dome emerged from beneath the fur brim, and his face, lined with age but exuding authority, broke into a polite smile. He gave Arthur a small bow, not too deep, just enough to show respect.
"Mr. Morgan," he said smoothly, "it's a pleasure. I'm Galliani—Vice Chairman of AC Milan."