Listening to Moratti's suddenly high-pitched tone, Arthur blinked. For a second, he wasn't sure if he was hearing things — because the Inter president didn't just sound surprised, he sounded delighted.
It was the kind of joy that came from deep down, the kind that made Arthur picture the man grinning like a lottery winner.
"Uh… it's true," Arthur admitted after a pause, his voice careful. "Massimo, we really do intend to buy Balotelli."
"That's great!" Moratti burst out, his booming Italian accent nearly blowing Arthur's eardrum through the phone. "Balotelli is a genius! You're a smart man, Arthur! You've always had an eye for talent — a unique vision!"
Arthur froze mid-breath.
Wait, what?
He had expected the usual — a bit of haggling, maybe a long sigh followed by "he's not for sale." He was prepared to be diplomatic, maybe even persistent. But this? This was… weird.
He sat back in his chair, utterly bewildered. What kind of chairman reacts like this when someone tries to buy his player?
He rubbed his temple, trying to process it. Normally, these things went like a game of chess — you made an offer, they countered, you pretended to walk away, and then both sides met somewhere in the middle.
But Moratti? The man sounded like he was about to wrap Balotelli in a bow and deliver him personally to Leeds.
"Hold on a second!" Arthur said, half laughing, half in disbelief. "Massimo, did you even hear what I said? Our offer was rejected by you! I called today to complain, not to make another bid!"
"That doesn't count!" Moratti shot back, almost panicked. "Wait for me — don't hang up! I want to find out what's going on!"
Before Arthur could respond, there was a burst of static, and Moratti was already shouting something to someone on the other end of his office. Arthur could faintly hear the sound of drawers opening, papers shuffling, and then the clack of a phone being lifted.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling with a faint smirk. This ought to be good.
A minute passed. Then another. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the faint hum of Moratti's Italian as he barked into his landline, switching between English and rapid-fire Italian.
Finally, the call on Arthur's mobile crackled back to life. But this time, Moratti's tone had changed completely — gone was the cheerful exuberance. What replaced it was a simmering irritation, the sound of a man who'd just discovered someone had misplaced his favorite vintage Ferrari.
"Arthur," Moratti said, his voice lower, tighter. "I've already asked around. It was Mancini."
Arthur straightened slightly in his chair. "Mancini?"
"Yes. It turns out Barletta received your offer, but instead of passing it to me, he went straight to Mancini. And Mancini—" Moratti paused, clearly trying to keep his temper in check "—he rejected your offer outright. Claimed Balotelli was an important part of his plans."
Arthur let out a small, knowing laugh. He couldn't help himself.
"Massimo," he said lightly, "I have to say, I really envy you. Your staff are so… independent. Meanwhile, I'm working like a horse every day. If Leeds wants a lightbulb changed, it somehow ends up on my desk. Damn, just talking about it makes me want to dock Alan's salary after this call."
On the other end, Moratti gave a weary sigh. The kind that carried the weight of years of similar nonsense.
"Don't tease me, Arthur," he said, his tone softening a little. "I know what you're implying. Believe me, I get it. But I understand them too, you know? They're just doing what they think is best for the team. They're thinking from a football perspective."
Arthur raised an eyebrow. For the good of the team, huh?
He couldn't help rolling his eyes at that one.
Since meeting Moratti, Arthur had grown rather fond of the man. The Italian had this disarming warmth about him — a mix of old-school charm and the kind of enthusiasm only a lifelong football romantic could have. He could talk about tactics one minute and gelato flavors the next. You couldn't help but like him.
But if there was one thing Arthur didn't agree with — it was how the man ran his club.
Because Moratti, for all his wealth and passion, was too sentimental.
Arthur drummed his fingers on the desk, thinking back to every time he'd seen Moratti on TV or in meetings. The man's heart was always on his sleeve. He adored his players like they were his sons, indulged his coaches like family, and let nostalgia guide decisions that should've been made with cold precision.
That kind of sentimentality was charming in a film. But in football? It was a nightmare.
Arthur had seen enough to know that a team couldn't be managed purely with affection. Players didn't need a father figure — they needed a boss. And a boss had to know when to let go, when to make the hard calls, when to be the villain if that's what the situation demanded.
Moratti, though? He was the type who'd rather get burned than upset someone.
That's why he's in this mess, Arthur thought, leaning back in his chair again.
He could almost picture Moratti pacing around his marble-floored office, waving one hand while clutching his phone with the other, muttering something about loyalty and responsibility. The man's love for Inter Milan was genuine, no question about that — but love alone didn't win titles.
Still, Arthur didn't press the point. He liked Moratti too much to turn the call into a lecture.
Instead, he chuckled softly and said, "Well, I suppose I can't argue with that logic. It's just… not exactly convenient for me."
Moratti gave a tired laugh, clearly sharing the sentiment.
"Ah, football management," he sighed. "It's supposed to be fun, isn't it? And yet here we are — both of us losing sleep over paperwork and coaches with opinions."
Arthur smiled faintly at that. For all his quirks, Moratti wasn't a bad man. In fact, in that moment, Arthur almost admired him. Running a club like Inter, dealing with stars, egos, and politics day after day — it took patience bordering on sainthood.
And yet, here he was, apologizing for his own coach's interference. That, Arthur thought, said everything about the kind of man Moratti was.
Still, the situation had just confirmed what Arthur already suspected. Mancini was the one who'd blocked the deal — and for all his talk of "plans" and "team importance," it was obvious what was really going on.
The Italian manager didn't want to lose Balotelli, not because he was essential, but because admitting Arthur's offer made sense would bruise his pride.
Arthur sighed quietly, glancing at the phone as Moratti continued speaking, still trying to smooth things over.
He appreciated the effort, but inside, he was already thinking ahead. He knew how to handle sentimental types — and this time, he wasn't going to let sentiment get in the way of a good deal.
*****
You should know that since the scandal the Italian press called "Phone Gate," Inter Milan had ruled Serie A like emperors. Starting from the 2005–06 season, they'd gone on a five-year rampage — five straight league titles.
They weren't just winning; they were bullying everyone.
Juventus had been punished, Milan were limping along with their aging stars, and the rest of Italy had no answer to the blue-and-black machine from the San Siro. Inter had money, power, and swagger. They'd become the one shining fortress in a crumbling Serie A empire.
And then came 2010 — the year.
Inter didn't just win; they conquered. Serie A, Coppa Italia, Supercoppa Italiana, Champions League, and Club World Cup — five trophies in one season. A cinque coronato.
For the first time, an Italian club held every major title at once. Mourinho strutted around like Caesar, Moratti smiled like a proud father, and Milan's red half went into hibernation from sheer humiliation.
In that fading age of Italian football, Inter had been the last torchbearer — the proof that Serie A could still stand toe-to-toe with the European giants.
But, as football gods love to remind everyone, no dynasty lasts forever.
And Inter's fall came faster than anyone imagined.
Sure, people blamed Benítez, the so-called "tinkerer" who arrived just as the team was cracking. Others said it was because the Moratti family finally grew tired of burning cash.
But in Arthur's eyes, those were side stories. The real problem was Moratti himself.
Too soft. Too sentimental. Too unwilling to move on.
Arthur could almost see the whole scene play out in his mind — the night Inter lifted the Champions League trophy in Madrid. Fireworks, champagne, hugs, tears. The perfect ending.
And the perfect moment to rebuild.
That was the time to cash in — to sell high, refresh the squad, inject new blood while the glory was still warm. A smart businessman would've done it without hesitation.
But Moratti wasn't a businessman that night. He was a dreamer lost in nostalgia.
Instead of restructuring, he handed out raises like candy. New contracts, bigger salaries, sentimental thank-yous to every aging hero who'd touched the cup. Zanetti, Cambiasso, Milito, Lucio, Maicon — the whole golden group was rewarded. It was beautiful, romantic, and absolutely disastrous.
By the time the summer window closed, Inter's finances looked like a charity ledger. The club's transfer profits had evaporated under the weight of those sentimental paydays.
And as the seasons passed, the consequences came knocking.
Lucio and Zanetti were slowing down. Cambiasso was running on fumes. Milito's legs looked heavy. Maicon had lost half a step and, with it, his magic. Sneijder and Motta couldn't stay fit. And with all the wages locked up in veterans, there was no space — and no money — for young talent to rise.
Balotelli had been one of the first to feel the squeeze. Young, wild, brimming with potential — and perpetually annoyed at being second choice. His minutes dropped, his patience dropped faster, and eventually, his head dropped too. When he left for England, it wasn't because he wanted to go. It was because Inter, ironically, had no room for youth anymore.
Now, years later, Arthur could see history repeating itself.
Moratti's bad habits were back.
Balotelli, once again wearing Inter colors, was stuck on the bench — a substitute of substitutes, barely making the matchday squad. And yet, when Leeds United came knocking with an offer north of ten million euros, Mancini — yes, the same Mancini whose contract was expiring in a few months — had personally blocked the deal.
"Important part of the team," Mancini had claimed.
Arthur nearly choked when he heard it.
Important? The lad's been 'important' to the bench cushions, maybe.
And Moratti? The old romantic had actually believed it.
Arthur sighed, shaking his head. He could already imagine the conversation between the two Italians — Moratti pacing around his office, fretting about loyalty, and Mancini nodding solemnly, pretending to "think of the club's best interests."
It made him sick just thinking about it.
Because if there was one thing Arthur had learned, it was that "for the good of the team" usually meant "for the good of someone's pride."
And right now, Mancini's pride was the size of a small country.
No — this wasn't about Balotelli being vital. It was about Mancini wanting to leave on his own terms, not as the man who sold a player to Arthur Morgan.
Arthur leaned back in his chair, tapping a pen against his desk as he mulled it over. If he knew Moratti — and he did — the man could be swayed either way. But if Mancini pushed hard enough, that sentimental heart might cave again.
And if that happened, the deal would die.
Arthur frowned. The thought of Mancini whispering something into Balotelli's ear — "stay put, kid, you'll play again soon" — was almost enough to make him grind his teeth.
That kid was impulsive enough to believe him too.
Arthur wasn't about to let that happen.
The offer had already been made public. Mancini would be on alert, and Balotelli might start asking questions. Timing was everything now — one wrong move and Leeds could lose their shot entirely.
He exhaled slowly, then smiled. Not a warm smile — a sharp, calculating one. The kind that meant he was already plotting his next move.
Fine, he thought. If I can't outtalk Mancini, maybe I can outsmart him.
Sometimes you had to think like a fox to survive in football. And Arthur had no problem playing the sly one.
"Better to kill the wrong lead," he muttered to himself with a wry grin, "than let the right one slip away."
He leaned forward, speaking again into the phone, voice casual but with an undercurrent of mischief.
"Massimo," he said lightly, "I heard something the other day… is it true Inter won't be renewing Mancini's contract after this season?"
There was a pause on the line. Arthur could practically hear Moratti blinking in surprise.
"Well, we are—" the man began automatically, before his brain caught up to his mouth.
Then there was a sharp intake of breath, followed by an exclamation so loud Arthur had to pull the phone away from his ear.
"No! How do you know that!?"