"Daniel, please explain to me exactly what is going on right now."
Inside the Fiorentina team manager's office, Michael Edwards paced the floor, his face flushed with irritation. The Liverpool Sporting Director had practically bolted from the Florence airport straight to the club's headquarters, his administrative composure entirely compromised.
"Your club is being far too unfair," Edwards continued, tossing a folder onto the desk. "Liverpool did you a massive favor in January by letting you have him for nothing. It is one thing to show zero gratitude, but to stab us in the back like this? Who could possibly put up with it?"
Daniel offered a bitter, somewhat embarrassed smile, leaning back in his chair. He knew Edwards had every right to be furious. During the winter break, Fiorentina's finances were incredibly tight, forcing them to hunt for a zero-fee loan to patch their midfield depth. Almost every major European side had rejected their inquiries until Liverpool offered a lifeline.
Nobody could have predicted the meteoric rise that followed. Renzo Uzumaki's sudden emergence had set the entire continent ablaze, turning a simple depth loan into the most successful signing in the modern history of the Viola. Given their current record-breaking winning streak, Daniel knew he practically owed Edwards a debt of absolute reverence.
"You know exactly what kind of negotiator Raiola is," Edwards said, stopping to glare at Daniel. "You knew we hadn't finalized Renzo's long-term extension yet. For Raiola to insert himself into this situation right now, he is clearly planning to rip a piece of meat right out of our budget."
Daniel raised his hands defensively. "Michael, I understand your frustration, but this was entirely out of my hands. Our club chairman, Della Valle, maintains a very close personal relationship with Mino. Renzo has been a revelation for us, and the Chairman simply wanted to ensure the boy had the best representation on Italian soil."
He paused, letting Edwards absorb the reality of the market. "Even if we had stayed out of it, do you honestly believe Raiola would ignore an unrepresented genius playing in Serie A? This league is his backyard."
It was a valid point. Raiola had built his empire within the borders of Italy over the last two decades. His network of informants inside every Italian training ground ensured he always had firsthand information on elite prospects. A talent like Renzo Uzumaki was a prize Raiola would never allow to fall into the hands of a rival agency.
Seeing that Edwards was still vibrating with resentment, Daniel attempted to soften the blow. "Look, you have had a long flight. Let me buy you dinner tonight, and we can discuss this properly."
"Dinner?" Edwards scoffed, adjusting his coat. "If I do not return to Merseyside with Renzo's signature on a new contract, I am afraid I will not be able to afford to eat at Liverpool much longer. Where is he right now? Is he at the training base?"
Daniel pointed out the window toward the adjacent fields. "The squad has a mandatory recovery session today. He is out there."
Before the sentence was even finished, Edwards slammed the office door, leaving the room in a hurry. Daniel shrugged helplessly, sympathizing with the man's panic for exactly one second before picking up his desk phone to dial a familiar number.
"Mino? It is Daniel. You guessed correctly. Edwards is already on the premises, and he is heading down to the pitch to confront Renzo right now."
Following their grueling away victory over Napoli, Fiorentina had officially extended their domestic winning streak to twelve consecutive matches, setting an absolute club record in Serie A. Under normal circumstances, Vincenzo Montella would have granted the players a full day of rest.
However, given the extreme physical toll of the match, the medical staff recommended a light recovery session to flush the lactic acid from the players' muscles.
"Renzo, Alberto, that is enough running," Montella called out from the touchline. "Get off the pitch and hit the ice baths. Playing ninety minutes at that intensity yesterday means your bodies are at a high risk of strain."
Renzo walked toward the bench, his jersey soaked in sweat. Alberto Aquilani followed closely behind, handing him a water bottle.
"Your technical game is flawless, Renzo, but your physical conditioning still needs a massive upgrade," Aquilani observed seriously. "I watched you during those final five minutes against Napoli. You were gritting your teeth just to keep your posture."
Renzo took a sip of water, a quiet smile appearing on his face. "If my lungs give out next time, I will simply request a substitution early. With you controlling the center, the squad will secure the points regardless."
Aquilani laughed, shaking his head. "You have a dangerous mouth, kid. You sound exactly like your father, Katsuo, always offering that smooth emotional value."
"Renzo! Renzo, wait!"
A sharp voice cut through the quiet of the training complex. Edwards strode onto the pitch, calling out to the playmaker before he had even cleared the white lines. The surrounding Fiorentina players immediately stopped their drills, watching the intruder with suspicious glares.
With the team's historic run dominating social media, foreign journalists had been continuously trying to infiltrate the training ground to discover the secret behind Renzo's flawless competitive form.
Juan Cuadrado stepped forward, using his frame to block Edwards' path entirely. "The session is strictly closed to the media, pal. No interviews, no photographs. Turn around."
"I am not a journalist," Edwards explained hurriedly, trying to look past the winger. "I am Michael Edwards, the Sporting Director of Liverpool. I am here to discuss a vital contract renewal with Renzo."
Cuadrado let out a loud laugh, clearly amused. "A Sporting Director? Right, and I am the manager of Real Madrid. Nice try, friend."
Before Cuadrado could signal security to eject him, Edwards spotted Renzo sitting on a cooler a few yards away. He waved his arms frantically. "Renzo! It is me! Edwards! From the winter signing!"
Renzo stood up, his gaze fixing on the visitor for several long seconds before the memory registered. "Juan, let him through. He is exactly who he says he is."
As the realization swept through the squad that this man was the official representative of Renzo's parent club, the Fiorentina players gathered around in a curious circle. None of them had ever met Edwards, but his name carried an absolute legendary status within the dressing room. He was the administrative benefactor who had handed them a generational superstar for absolutely nothing.
Edwards tightened his collar, looking thoroughly uncomfortable under the intense scrutiny of twenty professional footballers.
"So you are the famous Edwards?" Cuadrado asked, his hostility vanishing into a broad grin. "The man who authorized the free loan?"
Edwards squeezed out a strained, polite nod. "Yes. That was my operation."
The entire squad burst into collective laughter. Cuadrado clapped him on the shoulder with immense gratitude. "Mr. Edwards, the city of Florence owes you a monument. If it weren't for your magnificent administrative charity, our season would look very different right now. We thank you from the bottom of our hearts."
Edwards stared at the grass, his expression an absolute picture of misery. "Please stop talking," his face seemed to say. He turned his back on the squad, focusing entirely on the young playmaker.
"Renzo, I flew across Europe today for one specific reason. We need to finalize your new long-term contract with Liverpool. If we can, I want the terms agreed before the sun goes down today."
"Mr. Edwards, that violates basic professional protocol, doesn't it?"
The heavy, authoritative voice cut through the air from the entrance of the pitch. Mino Raiola walked forward with a slow, measured stride, his posture radiating immense leverage.
"As Renzo's exclusive representative, it is highly inappropriate for you to bypass my office and pitch directly to my client," Raiola said, offering a patronizing pat on Edwards' shoulder. "We have a history, Michael. No need for nerves. Let us find a quiet boardroom and discuss the metrics properly."
Once the three of them settled into Raiola's local offices in the heart of Florence, the agent immediately assumed complete control of the room. Edwards sat across from him, his mind flashing back to their disastrous transaction the previous summer.
After Luis Suárez departed for Barcelona, Raiola had convinced Liverpool to spend twenty-two million euros on Mario Balotelli. The move had been an absolute failure, with the striker scoring a mere three goals in twenty-five appearances while pulling down the second-highest wage packet at the club, behind only Steven Gerrard.
Jürgen Klopp had already made it clear that Balotelli had zero future in his tactical blueprint, leaving Edwards to bear the brunt of massive internal criticism. Dealing with Raiola never led to a comfortable conclusion.
"First, Michael, we must acknowledge the reality of the situation," Raiola began smoothly, tenting his fingers. "Renzo was undervalued at Anfield and discarded on a dry loan. That administrative coldness deeply wounded the boy's relationship with the directors."
He paused, watching Edwards' posture stiffen. "However, Steven Gerrard's personal intervention saved your position. Renzo still holds a deep respect for the club's heritage, and he is willing to sign an extension with Liverpool."
Edwards let out a long, quiet breath, the knot in his stomach loosening slightly. "Name the terms, Mino."
"The conditions reflect his true market value," Raiola stated without a hint of hesitation. "First, upon his return to Melwood, Renzo must be guaranteed an immediate starting role and positioned as the definitive core of the entire tactical system."
Edwards nodded instantly. "Approved. I have been in constant communication with Klopp. Jürgen is obsessed with the boy's passing metrics. He has personally guaranteed that the entire frontline will be structured around Renzo's vision next season."
"Second," Raiola continued, his voice dropping into a cold, businesslike register. "The financial compensation must match his status. We require a four-year agreement providing a baseline salary of three point five million euros per annum after taxes. Additionally, we expect a one-million-euro signing bonus, plus performance-related incentives."
The figure was astronomical, representing a staggering forty-fold increase over Renzo's current youth-tier contract. It would instantly make a sixteen-year-old the second-highest earner on Liverpool's books. Yet, to Raiola's complete surprise, Edwards didn't even flinch. He simply nodded his ascent without a single attempt to haggle.
"Third," Raiola pressed, unleashing his most aggressive demand. "The player will retain one hundred percent of his global image rights. We will structure a separate commercial agreement defining the specific percentages for club-related marketing."
In modern football finance, a superstar's basic salary was only a fraction of their earning potential. The true wealth lay in premium corporate endorsements, and controlling the image rights directly determined who profited from that global exposure. Raiola expected this clause to cause a massive administrative battle.
"Agreed," Edwards said cleanly. "Liverpool will concede the primary share of the image rights. We can finalize the minor marketing distributions during the formal contract draft."
Raiola sat back, completely stunned by the absolute lack of resistance. He looked at the Sporting Director with a furrowed brow. "Michael, are you entirely certain you have the authority to confirm these metrics without consulting the board?"
"The parameters were already discussed with John Henry before my flight," Edwards explained calmly. "The ownership views Renzo's retention as our absolute priority for the next decade. I have been granted maximum administrative clearance. Every term you have stated falls within my boundaries."
Raiola turned to Renzo, a quiet, ironic smile touching his lips. "Well, kid, it appears I may have underestimated your value to the Americans. These terms are historic for a sixteen-year-old. John Henry values your boots more than I imagined. You are going to have an incredibly comfortable life on Merseyside."
Edwards pulled out a pen, looking over the table. "Is there anything else to add, Mino? What about your personal agency fee?"
This was the true source of Edwards' underlying anxiety. During the Balotelli transfer, Raiola had extracted a massive twenty percent cut of the transfer fee, earning a cool four million euros for a failed signing—an extraction that had resulted in John Henry severely reprimanding the recruitment team.
"Ten percent of the baseline salary is sufficient," Raiola said evenly.
Edwards' eyes widened in absolute disbelief. "Ten percent? You are willing to settle for three hundred and fifty thousand euros?"
He stared at the agent, wondering if the man had somehow undergone a psychological shift. The negotiator who was routinely labeled a vampire by every boardroom in Europe was suddenly offering a massive concession.
Raiola flashed his trademark, highly confident smile. "Renzo is sixteen. The horizon is limitless, and this is merely the opening chapter of his career. I want our initial collaboration with Liverpool to be defined by a clean, successful resolution. Consider the fee a token of good faith."
Edwards sat in silence, looking between the agent and the silent, composed young playmaker. He realized with a jolt of profound clarity that Raiola wasn't being charitable at all. The man was simply so convinced of Renzo Uzumaki's terrifying future value that he didn't care about a minor immediate payout. He was playing a much longer, much more dangerous game.
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