"Don't worry about that." Arthur's voice was calm, the kind of calm that sat comfortably on the surface while the mind beneath it was already racing several moves ahead. He looked Mendes squarely in the eye, confidence shaped into a smile. "You just need to try to prevent Real Madrid from making an offer to Manchester United during the winter transfer window. After this winter, Calderón probably won't have time to think about bringing Cristiano in."
Mendes blinked. The agent's practiced expression flickered — a fraction of doubt, subtle but unmistakable — as if a single gear in his mental machinery had slipped and he was instantly aware that he needed to find it, readjust, and keep going. Arthur watched that tiny change closely; he liked people who showed their cards, even for a moment.
"Mr. Morgan…" Mendes started, but his voice lost its steady edge. Arthur's casual command had thrown a shadow where there hadn't been one a second before. Mendes had expected resistance, bargaining, a flurry of practical questions. Instead, Arthur offered a direction and a hint of confidence that smelled dangerously like a promise.
Arthur saw the confusion deepen on Mendes's face and decided to feed the man just enough information to bind him tighter to the plan. A little transparency, Arthur thought, could be the oil that made Mendes move faster and cleaner on Ronaldo's case. After all, Mendes worked in Spain; Spain was his turf. If there were whispers in the corridors of the Bernabéu, Mendes should already have heard them — or at least he would be able to pick them up quickly enough if Arthur pointed the radio antenna in the right direction.
"Mr. Mendes," Arthur said conversationally, "Spain's your home ground. Haven't you heard any murmurs within Real Madrid's management this season?"
Murmurs? Management unrest? Mendes' mind flashed through recent months like a man skimming headlines for a code word that would unlock everything. Real Madrid, on paper, was doing well: Capello gone, Schuster in, a few big names out, a few big names in — Robben, Drenthe, Metzelder, Pepe. The league table smiled at them: top of La Liga, six wins, one draw, an unbeaten run that, for most clubs, would be a cause for fireworks and champagne.
So where was the rumour supposed to come from? Mendes frowned. If the club were doing fine, who could be discontent? The only obvious person who might have a private grudge was Florentino Pérez — he had been pushed out; he had loved Real Madrid in a way Mendes recognized as total possession. But if the club had momentum, wouldn't Florentino be content to wait, watch and smile rather than throw stones?
Mendes opened his mental Rolodex, checking, cross-checking. A sliver of unease crept under his suit. There were, of course, whispers in every big club; there always were. The transfer market was gossip season year-round. Still, Arthur's suggestion felt different — like a whisper tossed into the engine room rather than a casual kitchen rumor.
And then, in a flash of memory that felt like an electric jolt, Mendes thought of Pepe's transfer. That deal had been wrapped carefully, hush-hush, a tidy sum — thirty million euros — with fingers pointing to the usual suspects: Calderón on one side, Mijatović on another. Mendes, who had been involved in parts of that circle, knew how the money had flowed, and he knew how few people in the club truly understood every detail. The fewer people who knew, the more precarious the secret.
Could Arthur be referring to that? Had he — an Englishman far removed from the Bernabéu's inner salons — somehow uncovered fragments of the Pepe deal? Mendes' skin prickled. Questions lined up behind his throat, impatient and dangerous.
When Arthur watched Mendes' expression shift — from curiosity to a tight smile and back again — he knew he'd landed on the right note. Mendes's brows smoothed and then creased; a practiced evasiveness pulled at the corner of his mouth like a puppeteer tugging a string. Arthur had seen that face before on agents, on club directors, on the kind of men who'd swallowed secrets for years and suddenly realized someone else might be poking around.
Arthur's eyes were steady. He'd been at this long enough to watch how people reacted when old wounds were reopened. A few months ago, he had nudged Florentino, quietly suggesting that someone check on the club's scouting department and Calderón's private pockets. It was the kind of nudge you leave as breadcrumbs to lead a man back to his own memory, to get him looking where you wanted him to look. Arthur didn't need Allen — his man on the ground — to report back; he had already set the wheels in motion and stuffed the machine with details that would buzz in the right ears.
When Pepe's price tag landed at thirty million and the player walked into the white of the Bernabéu shirt, Arthur had watched from the sidelines, noting how the old dynamics still pulsed. If Florentino had taken Arthur's hint seriously, he would be digging now, or smirking quietly as events started to unravel for Calderón. Arthur knew the politics of Madrid the way some men knew thrift store recipes: intimately, and with a small, knowing grin.
So when Arthur put the next piece into the game — casual, conversational, but sharp — it landed like a chess move. Mendes, who had thought he'd been steering the conversation, found himself only able to mimic the motions of a man who'd been caught flat-footed.
"You… you mean Pepe's transfer," Mendes said finally, the words slipping out like a half-confession. He tried to steady the note, to keep it purely corporate, but the hair on his arms lifted as if he'd stepped into a cool wind. The room, though heated, felt suddenly colder. Mendes felt the prickle of goosebumps under the fabric of his jacket.
Arthur's smile didn't change. He tilted his head, sipping his coffee as if the whole affair was a leisurely duel and he had all the time in the world. "Mr. Mendes, Pepe's agent — is that you?"
The question, simple and direct, landed like ice. Mendes had thought he might be confronted by lawyers, by journalists, by angry executives; he hadn't expected this intimate, pinpointed inquiry from the man sitting across with the smile that made people reveal their souls.
Mendes felt the blood retreat from his face a fraction. He had been party to details associated with the Pepe deal. He had tasted the sweetness of thirty million euros moving in the market. But the heavy slice of that transaction's discretion had been reserved for a very small club of confidants — Calderón, Mijatović, a handful of trusted intermediaries — certainly not an English club owner who'd only been "playing" in these circles for a short while.
How did Arthur know? Mendes's mind raced for explanations and kept bouncing off the walls of plausibility. He considered diversion, denial, even a joke. But Arthur's gaze pinned him like a referee calling a foul.
"Don't be so nervous, Mr. Mendes. This is nothing big." Arthur's voice smoothed the moment, but the gesture wasn't entirely merciful. He tipped a piece of tissue toward Mendes as if offering him something trivial — a mockery of comfort — then took out a small slip of paper from the box and handed it over.
"Ask your friend to adjust the heater," Arthur said lightly, pointing to Mendes' forehead with a playful finger as he did so. "Look at you — you're sweating."
What should have been a throwaway line landed like a slap. Mendes felt the room tighten; the conversation was now about more than Ronaldo's potential move to Leeds. If such a topic — the undercurrent around Pepe's switch and possible financial manoeuvres — were to leak or be weaponized, Mendes realized, it could tarnish more than names. It could stain reputations, ruin careers, even pull law enforcement attention into uncomfortable proximity. For a man whose antennae were always twitching for risk, the prospect was cold and sharp.
Mendes' calm evaporated like steam. Anxiety wrote itself across his features in a language of shallow breaths and restless fingers. The agent, who'd navigated the innards of European football deals for years, suddenly looked exposed. The professional mask slipped, revealing the worried lines of a man who counted commissions and consequences in equal measure.
"You still look very nervous, Mr. Mendes," Arthur observed, but there was none of the old malice in the remark; it was a test, a measurement more than a taunt.
"Mr. Morgan! Although I don't know how you learned this, but—" Mendes began, trying to recover the decorum of a man back in control.
"Don't worry," Arthur said, faster this time, as if sensing the need to offer a lifeline before the conversation snapped. "We are already partners. You can ask Raiola. I never hurt my partners!"
That phrasing — "we are already partners" — did what a contract could not. It implied reciprocity and a ledger of favors yet to balance. Mendes felt the tide shift again; the offer of partnership was a hand extended but also a subtle reminder that Arthur had already placed him in a role from which retreat would be costly. Mendes swallowed, the knot of dread loosening into a cautious, grateful relief.
Gratitude shaded his face as he realized Arthur wasn't interested in public spectacle; he wanted results. Mendes had accepted previously to help with Ronaldo's transfer partly for the commission, partly for the prestige — and partly because, in his quieter, more gullible moments, he could imagine benefiting from the rise of Leeds United. Play your cards well and the board rewards you.
Now, however, his instincts shouted louder: this was not just another bargaining chip. If Mendes failed, Arthur's quiet smile and promised partnerships hinted at ten thousand other ways a man could be made to regret it. The threat was not overt; it didn't need to be. It hung there like a shadow that only needed a breath to become a storm.
Mendes heard the clock tick, heard his pulse, and understood precisely what he had to do next. He would move carefully, he would summon favors, and he would empty the pockets of every contact he could to keep this from becoming a headline. Because if he didn't, the consequences would be worse than any temporary loss of face.
Mendes knew. If he didn't do his best in this matter, the terrifying man with a smile on his face would definitely have ten thousand ways to deal with him...!