Football Manager: Running a Rip-off club

Three days later, Milan greeted Arthur not with sunshine and romance, but with the heavy scent of jet fuel and overpriced coffee. At ten in the morning, Raiola himself waddled into Malpensa Airport to pick up Arthur and his ever-reliable assistant, Allen.

Raiola, always a sight to behold, looked like he had already eaten three breakfasts, signed two contracts, and argued with at least one airline clerk before turning up. He was dressed in his usual uniform: an ill-fitting polo shirt, sunglasses that made him look like a retired bodyguard, and an expression that screamed, I'm important and hungry at the same time.

Arthur, dragging his suitcase, gave Raiola a grin. "Mino, you look like a man who's just discovered a new pizza topping."

Raiola didn't even flinch. "Don't joke about food, Arthur. Some things are sacred."

Allen stifled a laugh, already sensing this trip was going to be chaos.

Before arriving in Milan, Arthur had already spoken on the phone with Kaka's agent, Gaetalo. That conversation had been a mix of businesslike calm and quiet heartbreak.

Galliani, the silver fox of AC Milan, had already sat Kaka down and broken the news: the golden boy of the Rossoneri had been sold to Leeds United.

Kaka's reaction was very different from what Arthur had expected. Adriano, when told about his future, had reportedly exploded with denial and frustration. Kaka, on the other hand, had simply been stunned, saddened, and silent. Yet he hadn't refused outright.

"He wants to talk," Gaetalo had said carefully. "He's shocked, but he'll meet you. That's something."

Arthur had hung up the phone, tapping his fingers on the desk. Shocked but open. That was the difference between hope and despair, and Arthur knew which of the two Brazilians he'd rather start with. But business was business, and he had to deal with the more unstable one first.

So the plan was simple: today was for Adriano, tomorrow for Kaka.

After a surprisingly good lunch in downtown Milan—Raiola insisted on choosing the restaurant, naturally—the three men made their way to Adriano's home. Arthur was in high spirits, but the closer they got, the more Raiola's face twisted like a man heading to a dentist appointment.

They rang the doorbell. No sound. Then, after a few long seconds, the door creaked open.

What stood in the doorway nearly made Arthur's jaw drop.

Adriano appeared, but not the Adriano who once thundered down Serie A pitches like a wrecking ball. This Adriano looked like he'd lost a fight with a bottle of vodka and then decided to marry it. His beard was wild, his shirt half-buttoned, and his eyes glazed over like someone who hadn't seen a full night's sleep—or daylight—in weeks.

He gave the three visitors the briefest of glances, eyes flicking up and down as though trying to remember if he knew them. Then, without a word, he turned and shuffled back inside.

Arthur and Raiola exchanged a look.

"Well," Arthur muttered, "that was… welcoming."

Raiola sighed, shoulders sagging. "I warned you."

Arthur followed him inside, Allen trailing behind, clutching his notepad like it was a holy relic.

The moment Arthur stepped over the threshold, his nose was assaulted. The air inside was thick with a sour, pungent stench that could only mean one thing.

Arthur wrinkled his nose. "Dear God, what died in here?"

Raiola leaned closer and whispered, "It's not death. It's wine. Lots of it. He hasn't been sober since the league ended."

Arthur's eyes widened. "You're telling me this man has been marinating himself like a Christmas ham for weeks?"

"Exactly." Raiola gestured at the mess around them—bottles scattered on the floor, half-eaten food left to rot on plates, curtains drawn tight against the daylight. "If I hadn't told him you were coming, he wouldn't even have answered the door. You'd still be standing outside."

Arthur shook his head slowly. He'd read the headlines before, of course. He'd seen the reports about Adriano's struggles—how his father's death had broken him, how his form had collapsed, how whispers of drinking and depression followed him everywhere. He had even heard Raiola describe it in grim detail.

But nothing—absolutely nothing—matched seeing it in the flesh.

"Bloody hell," Arthur muttered under his breath. "If one of my lads at Leeds showed up like this, I'd drop him in the reserves so fast his boots wouldn't touch the floor."

Adriano, slumped on the sofa with a bottle dangling from his hand, didn't even react. He looked less like a professional footballer and more like a man you'd cross the street to avoid at midnight in Milan.

Allen scribbled furiously in his notebook, muttering to himself, "Observation: subject resembles homeless person… possibly allergic to showers…"

Arthur glanced around again, taking in the wreckage. It was tragic, yes—but it was also surreal. Here was a man once feared as the "Emperor of Milan," reduced to this.

Raiola must have seen the disbelief in Arthur's eyes, because he shook his head and whispered again, "I don't know why you'd want him. He's strong, sure, but that was in the past. His father's death destroyed him, and being sold off finished the job. I'll be honest, Arthur—I don't see how you fix this."

Arthur didn't reply right away. He just stared at Adriano, a storm of thoughts swirling in his head.

Raiola wasn't wrong. By any logical measure, throwing money at this mess was lunacy.

Adriano wasn't a signing—he was a gamble with the odds stacked against you. But Arthur wasn't one to shy away from a risk. He saw something others didn't, or at least he convinced himself he did.

Because if—if—he could revive this man, if he could pull Adriano out of the abyss and put him back on a football pitch in the right frame of mind, then Leeds United wouldn't just have a striker. They'd have a monster.

For now, though, all Arthur could do was shake his head and let out a low whistle. "Professional player, my arse," he muttered. "He looks more like a pub mascot."

Allen snorted, trying not to laugh. Raiola groaned, burying his face in his hands.

*****

Arthur thought he'd already seen the worst of it when Adriano stumbled to the door, half-drunk and barely awake. But the real punch in the gut came when they followed him through the narrow corridor and stepped into the living room.

The place looked less like a footballer's home and more like the aftermath of a student party that had gone horribly wrong. The first thing Arthur noticed was the coffee table—or what was left of it under the mountain of bottles. Some were empty, lying on their sides like fallen soldiers, while others still had a finger or two of wine sloshing around inside. It wasn't just the table either—bottles sat on the sofa, lined the floor, and even stood proudly on a windowsill, as if they were decorative ornaments.

Arthur let out a low whistle. "Bloody hell. I thought we were coming to see a striker, not auditioning for a recycling ad."

Allen grimaced and carefully stepped around a bottle, as though he was defusing a landmine. Raiola didn't even flinch—he clearly knew this was what they were walking into.

Adriano himself was stretched out on one of the few uncluttered sofas. If you ignored the half-empty bottle in his hand and the dazed look in his eyes, you might have mistaken him for someone simply lounging after a long day. But then he tipped the bottle to his lips with a lazy motion, and the reality hit home: this man wasn't lounging—he was drowning.

Allen, ever the practical one, darted ahead and began moving a few bottles off the sofa opposite Adriano. "Here, boss," he muttered, clearing just enough space for Arthur to sit without risking smashing glass.

Arthur dropped onto the sofa, the cushions sagging under him, when a hoarse, alcohol-soaked voice cut through the silence.

"I'm quite curious…" Adriano slurred, pausing for a hiccup, "…why did you think of buying me?"

Arthur turned his head. Adriano hadn't even looked at him, his eyes half-closed, fixed somewhere on the floor. The hand holding the bottle trembled slightly, but the words were clear enough.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. So the man could still talk. That was already something.

He didn't answer right away. In his head, he'd been turning over how to start this conversation—whether to go in gently or hit Adriano with brutal honesty. But if the man was going to open his mouth first, then Arthur wasn't going to waste the chance.

"Didico," Arthur said, carefully. "Can I call you that?"

It wasn't a name plucked from nowhere. Arthur had done his homework. Moratti himself had let slip that "Didico" was Adriano's childhood nickname, something only those close to him ever used. Even Raiola didn't know it.

Adriano's eyelids fluttered. For the first time, he turned his head and met Arthur's eyes. There wasn't much there—just emptiness—but the mention of the name had cracked the wall.

"Huh…" Adriano muttered, his voice dry. "Massimo really is something, isn't he? Even told you that."

Arthur leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "So, you're okay with it?"

Adriano shrugged, lips curling in a humorless half-smile. "Doesn't matter. You can call me whatever you like. Last night the old lady next door called me a drunkard. Hehe…"

Allen scribbled something in his notebook like a courtroom stenographer: nicknames include Didico, also answers to drunkard.

Arthur ignored him and pressed on. "Then, Didico… let me ask you something." He paused until Adriano lifted his head again, however slightly. "Do you still want to play football?"

That landed like a thunderclap.

Adriano blinked at him, stunned. For a moment, he looked as though he hadn't heard right. Of all the things he expected Arthur to say—money, contracts, wages, promises of trophies—this was not it.

He had assumed the visit was purely transactional. The famous Arthur, the manager who had shaken England, showing up to hammer out numbers and persuade him to cross the Channel. Adriano had even rehearsed in his head how it would go. If he liked the man, maybe he'd sit through a polite chat before turning him down. If he didn't, he'd tell him to get lost before the coffee went cold.

But this question? This question was different.

Adriano opened his mouth, then closed it again. For the first time all day, the bottle in his hand lowered a fraction.

Arthur didn't move. He just watched, calm, his tone steady but insistent.

Because he knew—this wasn't about contracts or transfer fees. This was about whether there was anything left inside Adriano worth saving.

Inside Adriano's chest, something twisted. He thought back to when he first heard the news. Moratti—his second father after his own father's death—had sold him to Leeds United. To the Premier League. To a foreign club where he had no friends, no comfort, no shield.

In that moment, something inside him had collapsed. The one constant in his fragile world, the belief that he would always belong in Milan, had been ripped away.

His faith, his foundation, his sky—it had all caved in.

And now here was this young Englishman, sitting across from him, daring to ask the one question he'd been avoiding every single day since: Do you still want to play football?

Adriano stared at Arthur, the silence stretching. His throat worked as if he wanted to answer, but no words came out.

Arthur didn't rush him. He simply leaned back against the sofa, folded his arms, and waited.

The air in the room was heavy—partly with the stench of alcohol, partly with the weight of something deeper.

Finally, Adriano gave a hollow laugh, a sound that held no joy at all. He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling. The bottle in his hand shook once, twice, before he raised it again.

But for those few seconds before the drink touched his lips, Arthur saw it—the hesitation, the flicker of something in Adriano's eyes that suggested the fire wasn't completely out.

And Arthur knew he had struck the right nerve.