Ron didn't mess around.
Just ten minutes after Arthur made the call, his phone buzzed. Ron was back already. The voice on the other end was sharp, straight to the point.
"Raiola's in Milan," Ron said. "And guess what—he actually wants to meet you."
Arthur blinked. He hadn't expected that part.
Without wasting a beat, Arthur texted Ron the name of his hotel and told him to pass it on. "Tell him to drop by tomorrow morning," he said, "we'll have a nice little chat. I'll even pretend I'm happy to see him."
When Ron relayed the message, Raiola's initial reaction was... confusion. The man had no idea who this Arthur fellow even was. Some ambitious club owner from England? Sounded like another guy trying to play in the big leagues.
But when Ron casually added that "his boss" wanted a private meeting, Raiola's eyebrows lifted.
Now that was interesting.
Unlike other agents who played nice with club directors or tried to network their way into influence, Raiola didn't bother with any of that polite nonsense. He had no friends in the football business. He didn't want any. He wasn't here to schmooze or shake hands—he was here to win deals, make money, and leave club executives quietly weeping over their transfer budgets.
Ever since bursting onto the scene at 25, Raiola had made a name for himself as a dealmaker who didn't back down and didn't care what people thought. Confidence? He had enough to power a small country. And players loved him for it—he fought for them like a bulldog. Well, a very expensive, Italian-speaking bulldog.
In the last few years alone, Raiola had been behind the transfers of Bergkamp, Nedved, Emerson, and Zlatan Ibrahimovic. Each deal had two things in common: the player got a sweet contract, and Raiola walked away laughing all the way to the bank.
And now, someone new wanted to meet him. Raiola didn't know exactly what this Arthur guy was planning—but he was definitely intrigued.
As for why Raiola—who famously avoided club owners like they were unpaid bar tabs—suddenly showed interest in meeting Arthur? That story started with one name: Tim Howard.
Back then, Raiola had watched with mild curiosity as Leeds United scooped up Howard for peanuts and flipped him four months later for a profit of over €10 million. That wasn't just a lucky break. That was highway robbery in football boots.
Raiola's first reaction? Shock. His second? Suspicion.
He started paying closer attention to Leeds United and, more importantly, to Arthur, the club's young, slightly mysterious owner who never seemed to travel, rarely showed up in public, and somehow ran his club like a footballing version of Sherlock Holmes with a spreadsheet.
At first, Raiola figured Leeds must have one hell of a scouting department. But then he remembered something—he knew Ron, Arthur's scout director.
And Raiola, being Raiola, didn't rate Ron all that highly. Nice guy, but sharp as a spoon.
Then came the kicker.
In a casual chat over coffee, Ron accidentally let something slip. These young players? The obscure kids from second divisions and reserve squads that Leeds kept unearthing for pocket change? Arthur had found them.
Not the scouts. Arthur. The man who never left his office and probably thought sunlight was a luxury.
Raiola was stunned. This made absolutely no sense. How was this guy—this quiet, poker-faced club owner—spotting talent that even top scouts missed? Arthur wasn't out there watching U17 matches in the rain or camping out at youth tournaments. And yet, time and again, he hit gold.
Still skeptical, Raiola kept watching. Then came the summer transfer window. Leeds United sold Adebayo and two others—barely-known players just a season ago. Raiola did the math (which he never did without a calculator). Arthur had spent under €10 million and flipped those players for nearly €80 million within a year.
Raiola, the king of transfer manipulation, the man who once negotiated contracts by yelling into phones in four different languages, actually dropped his fork when he read the numbers.
"This is insane," he muttered. "This guy isn't just lucky. He's possessed."
For a man as full of pride as Raiola, admitting someone might be better than him at anything was like chewing nails. But he couldn't deny it anymore. Arthur had something. Some strange, almost creepy sixth sense for talent. It freaked him out—and intrigued him all the same.
So the moment he hung up with Ron, Raiola didn't wait. He grabbed his coat, ordered a car, and left Milan in the middle of the night. Screw the espresso. He had to get to Turin. He needed to meet this Leeds United boss in person.
Not to negotiate. Not even to argue.
No, this time, Raiola was coming to learn. And for him, that was downright terrifying.
Arthur had no idea that Raiola had charged over like a football agent on a mission from heaven. In fact, while Raiola was busy hurtling across northern Italy like a transfer-window tornado, Arthur was doing something far more civilized—sleeping. Peacefully. Like a man who had just haggled Juventus into submission and had earned every second of it.
The next morning, in the quiet of a cozy hotel room booked by Allen, Arthur had just polished off his breakfast—a neatly stacked pile of eggs, toast, and whatever passed for sausages in northern Italy—when his phone buzzed.
He lazily reached over, checked the caller ID, and picked it up. What followed was a voice so warm and eager, it was borderline suspicious.
"Hello, Mr. Arthur! Sorry to bother you this early. I'm Mino Raiola—I've already arrived at your hotel."
Arthur blinked. "…What?"
He instinctively pulled the phone away to check the time. 8:30 AM. Who in their right mind wants to talk transfers before coffee number two?
"Uh… Mr. Raiola, good morning," Arthur replied, trying not to sound like someone who still had toast crumbs stuck to his face. "If I'm not mistaken, it's barely half past eight. Did you leave Milan before sunrise?"
Raiola laughed—one of those hearty, salesman laughs that somehow sounded both charming and slightly terrifying.
"To be honest, Mr. Arthur, I came in last night. I'm also staying at this hotel. Who knows, I might be next door to you right now!"
Arthur froze. That was way too much enthusiasm for a football agent. He was half-tempted to check the peephole and make sure the guy wasn't already lurking in the hallway.
Relax, Arthur, he told himself. You're not a rare Pokémon.
Still, he composed himself and answered politely, "Alright, Mr. Raiola. I just finished breakfast. Give me twenty minutes. Let's meet at the hotel café."
The moment the invitation was extended, Raiola didn't even say goodbye properly—he just hung up with the efficiency of a man who had been preparing for this meeting since the Stone Age. He quickly tidied his suit, gave himself a once-over in the mirror, and bolted downstairs like a man racing to a limited-time discount on superstars.
Exactly twenty minutes later, Arthur finally strolled into the café. He wasn't rushing. If Raiola had the energy to wake up before dawn, he could wait a few more minutes.
There, standing next to a neatly set table by the window, was the man himself.
Arthur had seen Raiola on TV before—usually shouting at someone or smirking in the background of a chaotic transfer scene. But in person? He was surprisingly put together. None of the rotund, cartoon-villain vibe he'd come to associate with him. The man was in his thirties, still lean-ish, wearing a dark blue suit and a brown tie, and looked strangely... cheerful.
His smile was wide, his posture confident, and his energy was somewhere between "motivational speaker" and "guy who just discovered caffeine."
Arthur walked over, extended his hand, and gave the most honest greeting he could muster:
"Well, someone's enthusiastic this morning."
And just like that, the game began.
As Arthur approached the table, Raiola was already up on his feet, grinning like a cat that had just sniffed a room full of tuna. He thrust his hand forward and said warmly, "Welcome to Italy, Mr. Arthur! You're even younger than I imagined!"
Arthur chuckled, shaking his hand. "That's either a compliment or a warning sign," he replied. They both laughed, and Arthur gestured for them to sit down.
Raiola, ever the host, had already ordered two cappuccinos like a true Italian breakfast snob. Arthur took one sip and nearly winced. Frothy milk and espresso at 9 in the morning? Not for him. He politely called over the waiter and swapped it out for a proper cup of tea—British habits die hard, especially when you're negotiating million-euro transfers.
Then, with the polite smile of a man about to drop a conversational grenade, Arthur leaned forward and opened the discussion.
"Mr. Raiola, I've wanted to meet you for quite a while. Since I happened to be in Turin on business, I asked Ron to help arrange something. I didn't expect you to sprint over from Milan in the middle of the night. Honestly, in the words of my hometown—well, let's just say I'm very flattered."
He smiled, keeping his tone friendly, but even he couldn't hide the slight disbelief in his voice. Raiola had reacted like a teenage fan who'd just been told their idol was nearby.
Raiola beamed. "Mr. Arthur, please, you're being too modest. The truth is, I've wanted to meet you for a long time. When Ron called and said you wanted to talk, I couldn't believe it. I was so excited, I got in the car and came straight here. I hope my call didn't wake you up this morning."
Arthur blinked, a little taken aback by the enthusiasm. Mate, I just wanted a chat, not a pilgrimage.
He gave a polite nod but was thinking: I didn't even say it was urgent… what exactly are you expecting, a gold bar wrapped in a transfer deal?
Before Arthur could ask what the fuss was about, Raiola leaned in, his tone suddenly shifting to business.
"Mr. Arthur, if you don't mind me asking… are you in Turin for a deal with Juventus?"
There it was. The shark had sniffed blood in the water. Raiola's instincts were clearly razor sharp—he probably could've sniffed a transfer rumor through a concrete wall. Arthur respected that. After all, Raiola was the agent of several big-name Juventus players, and hearing that Leeds United's young boss had turned up in Turin probably set off all kinds of alarm bells.
Arthur paused for half a second, impressed by the man's sense for market movements. Still, he wasn't going to confirm anything that hadn't been locked down yet—especially not Camoranesi, who wasn't even one of Raiola's clients.
So he simply smiled and gave the classic dodger's reply: "I'm sorry, Mr. Raiola, but I can't share anything that hasn't been confirmed."
Raiola didn't press, though he looked a bit disappointed. But Arthur was just getting started. He leaned back, took a sip of his tea, and calmly dropped his real reason for the meeting like it was no big deal.
"I actually wanted to talk to you about something else. In the next six months, I'd like your help convincing Ibrahimović to join Leeds. I'll offer him a very high salary. I want him with us next season."
The look on Raiola's face was priceless.
His eyebrows shot up so high they practically left orbit, and for a moment, the famously smooth-talking agent just sat there blinking, as if Arthur had asked for the keys to Fort Knox.