Arthur had done his homework. Before stepping foot in this overpriced restaurant in Turin, he'd already estimated Camoranesi's market value at around 12 million euros. Not a penny more. That was the upper limit, the financial ceiling, the absolute "do not cross" line on his internal spreadsheet.
And even that 12 million wasn't sitting there in a gold vault. No, it was more like a juggling act on a tightrope. After selling Chiellini and Deisler, Arthur had closed the outbox on winter transfers. No more players would be sacrificed. That cash had to stretch.
He needed to keep at least 3 million euros tucked safely in the club's reserves to keep the lights on, pay salaries, and make sure the next time someone asked for new training cones, the answer wasn't, "Use your imagination."
So realistically, 12 million euros for Camoranesi wasn't just a number—it was the edge of a cliff.
Unfortunately, across the table sat Giraudo, a man who negotiated like he was haggling over ancient treasure. When Arthur offered 9 million euros, Giraudo didn't even blink. He just sipped his coffee like a smug Bond villain and let the silence stew.
Arthur waited. Nothing.
He tried again, more diplomatically this time. "Alright, Mr. Giraudo," he said with a calm, reasonable tone. "Let's try this—11 million euros. That's two more than our previous offer."
It was a good-faith gesture. One that hurt, financially and emotionally. That extra 2 million was basically the club's heating bill for the next three months. But Arthur was ready to stretch—barely.
Giraudo, however, was built differently. He set his cup down with the slow grace of a man who had rejected better offers before breakfast. He glanced at Arthur like he was trying to decide whether to laugh or be insulted.
"Mr. Arthur," he said, voice smooth and polite but colder than the Alps, "I'm afraid that still falls far short of what we believe Camoranesi is worth."
The words dropped like bricks.
Arthur blinked. Far short? He almost burst out laughing, partly in disbelief, partly in despair. Is this guy serious?
He sat there for a moment, silently staring at the man across from him. Far from the expected value? What did that even mean? Camoranesi was a brilliant player, sure—but he was also about to turn 30, not 25. Arthur wasn't trying to buy prime Pirlo.
This was a solid, seasoned winger, not a golden goose. Yet here was Giraudo acting like he'd just been offered loose change for a national treasure.
Arthur kept a straight face, but inside his head, he was already narrating this scene in a mock documentary voice: "Here we see the rare Italian executive in his natural habitat, refusing millions of euros on principle alone."
Still, he didn't argue. Not yet. He knew better than to get emotional in a negotiation—especially when the other guy was sipping espresso like a mafia boss.
Allen, seated next to him, looked like he was trying to do mental math, adding up club expenses and quietly panicking. Moggi, meanwhile, just sat in the corner like an awkward houseplant, pretending the ceiling was fascinating. He hadn't said a word since the price discussion started. Probably a smart move.
Arthur cleared his throat. He wasn't going to blow his top—yet—but he was getting close to the point where sarcasm would start leaking through.
In this era—long before sports science turned footballers into age-defying machines—there were hard rules about a player's prime. It wasn't some flexible, open-ended timeline like a modern fitness app might suggest. No, it was cold, brutal arithmetic: age 26 to 30. That was it. That was your window to shine. Once a player crossed into his thirties, the decline came fast. It wasn't a gentle slope—it was a nosedive.
Arthur knew this well. Ten years from now, sure, sports medicine would be handing out career extensions like candy. Just look at Cristiano Ronaldo. That man was a walking bionic prototype—thirty-five, thirty-six, still playing like his body had never even heard of aging. Then he went to Saudi Arabia in his late thirties and was still scoring goals like the league was a retirement hobby. But that was the future.
Right now? Thirty was the magic number—and not in a good way.
Camoranesi was pushing that number fast. Sure, he was still sharp, still agile, but Arthur knew that time was a one-way street. And worse, there was another red flag: Camoranesi was American-born. And at this time, the stereotype in Europe was that American players—no matter how talented—flamed out fast. They'd hit their peak like a rocket, cash their cheques, and then fizzle out into mediocrity by the time most players were just getting started.
Arthur had all this lined up in his head—his logical counterattack. He was just about to lay it out for Giraudo with calm, ruthless clarity.
But just as Arthur opened his mouth to deliver the verbal counterstrike of the century—ring ring. The tension cracked like a dropped wine glass.
Allen's phone vibrated with all the subtlety of a fire drill.
Everyone in the room glanced at him.
He gave a sheepish smile, muttered, "Sorry," and stepped out to take the call.
Arthur crossed his arms and leaned back, trying to look relaxed while Giraudo sipped his espresso with the smuggest slurp in northern Italy. Moggi continued existing like a decorative piece of furniture.
But then—barely fifteen seconds later—the door swung back open. Allen returned with the face of a man who'd just heard something important.
He walked directly to Arthur and whispered a few words into his ear.
Arthur's expression instantly shifted. The steel in his eyes softened. The slight tension in his shoulders melted away. Whatever Allen had just said, it worked like magic.
Arthur turned back to Giraudo with a wide smile. "Mr. Giraudo, I'll be honest with you. I'm not going to haggle any further. 12 million euros is our final offer. If we can't reach a deal at that price, then we'll have to walk away. My scouts just reported a few new options, and frankly… they might save us some money."
He said it lightly, almost casually, but the message was clear: Take it or leave it.
Giraudo didn't buy the timing for a second. He wasn't born yesterday. What a coincidence—just when things hit a dead end, Leeds United suddenly had a Plan B? Yeah, right.
But still… something about Arthur's tone made him uneasy. The young man looked calm, composed, and fully ready to walk away from the table. And that was a problem.
Because even though Giraudo was a tough negotiator, he wasn't blind. Camoranesi was valuable, yes, but not irreplaceable. Juventus had Mutu, Oliveira, and even Del Piero, who could drift wide when needed. They'd bought Vieira in the summer for 20 million euros—that was the real spine of their midfield now.
Selling Camoranesi wouldn't cripple the team. And better yet, it'd patch the financial hole left by the Vieira transfer.
So Giraudo turned to Moggi, who hadn't moved a muscle in half an hour. They whispered briefly, just enough for Moggi to grunt in acknowledgement.
Then Giraudo straightened up and gave Arthur a nod. "Alright. We accept your offer."
Arthur finally let himself breathe again. He kept his poker face on, but inside, he was doing cartwheels.
He shot Allen a quick, approving look. That fake "scout call" bluff had worked like a charm. It wasn't even about Camoranesi. It had nothing to do with the negotiations. But it had been timed perfectly, and for once, their opponent blinked.
Arthur had no intention of letting the moment slip.
The deal was settled. The two bosses stood up, exchanged final handshakes, and just like that, the business was done.
As Allen moved quickly to contact Camoranesi's agent to start personal negotiations, Arthur stayed behind in the box, alone for a moment.
He sat back down, folded his arms, and stared at the untouched coffee in front of him.
Now came the next step.
The battle was won—but the campaign was far from over.
Allen had only whispered one line into Arthur's ear, but it hit like a thunderbolt:
"I've already contacted Milan Sports Daily."
That was it. One sentence. But for Arthur, it was like Allen had handed him the nuclear launch codes.
See, before Allen even set foot in Turin, Arthur had handed him two missions. The first, the obvious one: make an offer for Camoranesi. Try not to bankrupt the club in the process. The second mission was far sneakier—Arthur had told Allen to quietly reach out to someone at Milan Sports Daily. Just to stir the pot a little. Plant a few seeds. You know—classic spy movie stuff, minus the tuxedo.
Turns out, Allen's little "bee squad"—a bunch of well-paid, gossip-hungry contacts in the media—had come through. One of them had just called Allen to give an update, and Allen made sure Arthur got the news fast.
And the news?
Oh, it was juicy.
Milan Sports Daily wasn't just sniffing around. They were already investigating Juventus and AC Milan. Word was, they'd even found something big. Real evidence. Serious dirt.
Arthur's eyes widened as the pieces fell into place like a dramatic detective reveal.
So this was how it started. The infamous "Phone Gate" scandal—Calciopoli—that would rock Italian football to its core just half a year later. Match-fixing, referee rigging, phone wiretaps, Moggi getting dragged out of the sport in disgrace. At the time it broke, the evidence had come out so strong, so damning, no one even tried to argue. Juventus got relegated. Titles were stripped. And Moggi? Years later, he'd get sentenced to prison.
But now, here in this quiet corner of Turin, Arthur was hearing about the very first tremors of that coming earthquake.
He didn't care about the legal mess, though. He couldn't care less if Juventus went down to Serie B, C, or the moon. What made Arthur sit up straight, eyes gleaming, was what happened next.
When Phone Gate broke out, Juventus got gutted like a fish. Their best players bolted like the stadium was on fire—and what a lineup it was. Ibrahimovic, Mutu, Vieira, Emerson, Cannavaro, Thuram, Zambrotta—every single one of them an absolute star. Arthur practically drooled just thinking about it.
What if he could get in early?
What if he could quietly approach these players before the chaos began?
If Leeds United could finish strong and sneak into the Champions League, they'd suddenly become a whole lot more attractive. Pair that with a good offer and the looming collapse of Juventus, and maybe—just maybe—he could pull off a summer transfer heist for the ages.
Arthur was already imagining Cannavaro leading his backline, Vieira bossing the midfield, and Ibrahimovic—Zlatan himself—terrorizing Premier League defences in a Leeds shirt. The thought was so exciting it almost made him forgive the club's current budget spreadsheet, which looked like a sad spreadsheet version of a horror movie.
And then came another idea.
Raiola.
The name popped into his head like a villain's theme song.
Mino Raiola—greedy, slippery, and somehow always one step ahead. By the time the rest of the world caught on, he was already halfway through a deal with a suitcase full of commission fees. Clubs hated him. Players loved him.
If Arthur remembered correctly, both Ibrahimovic and Emerson were on Raiola's client list. If there was anyone who could open the door to those superstars, it was that fat, fast-talking puppet master.
Good thing Arthur wasn't starting from scratch.
His head scout, Ron, had dealt with Raiola before. Probably had some scars from the experience, but at least there was a connection.
Arthur didn't waste a second. He yanked out his phone, dialed Ron's number, and didn't even wait for a greeting.
"Ron, I need a meeting with Raiola. The sooner, the better. If he's in Italy, I want to see him before I leave."
There was a pause on the other end, and then Ron's voice, flat but resigned: "You sure? That guy charges more for coffee than most players make in a week."
Arthur smirked.
"I'll bring my own coffee." And with that, he hung up.
If he was going to hunt for buried treasure, might as well start by meeting the biggest pirate of themNegotiations with Juventus all.