A week.

That's how long the blissful, sun-drenched haze of the Amalfi Coast holiday lasted.

It was a perfect, timeless bubble of victory and family.

The city was abuzz with two things: Inter's incredible double-win, and the shocking appointment of their new president. Flavio Briatore, the flamboyant, controversial former Formula 1 tycoon, was now the man in charge.

The sports newspapers were having a field day, running wild with speculation.

Would he try to sign F1 drivers to play in midfield? Would he paint the team bus gold? Would post-match interviews now be conducted from a yacht?

For the players, it was a strange, uncertain, and slightly hilarious new chapter.

Leon was trying to enjoy the last few days of his off-season, which mostly involved sleeping late, eating his mother's incredible food, and exchanging witty, slightly flirty texts with Sofia.

But his quiet, peaceful world was shattered on a Tuesday afternoon by a phone call that sounded like a natural disaster.

"LEO! LEO! ARE YOU SITTING DOWN?!" his agent, Marco, screamed into the phone. "IF YOU ARE STANDING, PLEASE FIND A SOFT CHAIR! MAYBE A MATTRESS! YOUR LIFE IS ABOUT TO CHANGE!"

"Ciao, Marco," Leon said, a resigned smile on his face as he sat down on his sofa. "I'm guessing the Japanese lightning drink company made a new offer?"

"FORGET THE LIGHTNING DRINK!" Marco roared. "THIS IS BIGGER! THIS IS... REDDER! I have just gotten off the phone with David from Liverpool! He says their manager, the big Dutch genius, Arne Slot, is in Milan for a conference. And he has made a personal request. He wants to meet you."

Leon's heart did a little nervous tap-dance.

"Okay. A meeting. We can arrange something at the training ground when we are back..."

"NO!" Marco yelled, the sound nearly making Leon drop his phone. "Not at the training ground! He wants it to be personal. Private. Away from the cameras, the club officials, everyone. He wants to come... to your house."

Leon just stared at his perfectly normal, comfortable sofa. The idea of a world-famous, Premier League-winning manager sitting right there, probably being judgmental about his choice of decorative cushions, was completely surreal.

"He wants to come here?" Leon squeaked.

"Tomorrow," Marco confirmed, his voice now a reverent, dramatic whisper. "The mountain is coming to Muhammad, my boy. The mountain is coming to Muhammad."

The next forty-eight hours in Leon's apartment were a whirlwind of what his mother called "Emergency Guest Preparation."

"Mamma mia, a famous Dutch man is coming to our home?!"

Elena had exclaimed, her eyes wide with a mixture of pride and pure, unadulterated panic. "Does he like lemon cookies? We need more cookies! And the sofa! Does it look important enough? Maybe I should put the fancy lace doilies on it!"

"Mom, please don't put the fancy lace doilies on the sofa," Leon pleaded as he frantically tried to tidy his room, which looked like it had been hit by a small, localized tornado of football boots and video games.

He spent the next two days in a state of low-grade anxiety.

What do you wear when a managerial genius is coming to your house?

Do you offer him coffee? What if he's a tea person?

What if he asks a complex tactical question and Leon just forgets how football works?

He changed his sweater three times before finally settling on a simple, non-threatening grey one.

At exactly 3 PM on the dot, the doorbell rang.

Leon opened the door to a man who was the complete opposite of the terrifying, volcanic intensity of Cristian Chivu.

Arne Slot was tall and charismatic, with a warm, intelligent smile and a calm, confident energy that instantly put Leon at ease.

"Leon," he said, extending a hand. "Thank you for seeing me. I hope I am not intruding."

"Not at all, Mr. Slot," Leon said, his voice a little shaky. "Please, come in."

His mother, of course, chose that exact moment to appear, holding a plate of cookies like it was a holy offering.

"Mr. Slot! Welcome! Please, have a cookie! They are lemon. Very good for... tactical thinking."

Slot chuckled, a genuinely warm and friendly sound, and took a cookie.

"Thank you, Signora. They smell wonderful."

They sat on the sofa—the perfectly normal, non-lace-doily-covered sofa—and for a few minutes, they just talked.

Slot asked about his family, about his season, about the feeling of scoring the winning goal to clinch the title.

Then, he leaned forward, his expression shifting from friendly to one of intense, visionary focus.

"Leon," he began, his voice low and persuasive. "I am not here to talk to you about money or contracts. I am here to talk to you about a dream. I have watched every single one of your matches this season. Your vision, your intelligence... it is a gift. You don't just play football; you see it, in a way that very few players in the history of the game ever have."

He paused, letting the words land. "I have a team of magnificent athletes. I have Mohamed Salah, a living legend, a bolt of lightning on the right wing. I have Alexander Isak, a perfect number nine, a hammer who can score any kind of goal. They are two parts of a perfect storm. But a storm needs a brain. It needs a conductor. It needs the one who sees the whole picture and tells the lightning where to strike."

He looked Leon directly in the eye. "I believe you are that brain, Leon. I believe that the three of you, together, would be... undefendable. A force of nature that would conquer Europe for the next five years."

The vision he painted was intoxicating.

The roar of Anfield, the intensity of the Premier League, the chance to be part of a legendary attacking trio. It was the stuff of dreams.

"I... I'm honored, sir," Leon said, his voice barely a whisper. "But... Inter is my home. We are building something special here, too."

"I know," Slot said with a nod of deep respect. "Which is why I am not just here to ask you to leave your home. I am here to propose... a collaboration." He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a sleek, red folder.

"We know that Inter, under its new management, will be ambitious," Slot said. "We know they will want to strengthen their squad, not just weaken it by selling their best player. Our offer to the club is not just a world-record transfer fee." He slid the folder across the table. "It is a choice."

Leon opened the folder. Inside were two profiles, two official Liverpool player dossiers.

The first was for Ibrahima Konaté, the colossal, world-class French central defender, a player who could walk into any defense in the world.

The second was for Trent Alexander-Arnold, the creative genius, the man with the magical right foot, the player whose 'Knuckleball' skill Leon had been so desperately trying to learn.

"We are offering Inter a historic transfer fee," Slot said, his voice a calm, powerful wave of persuasion. "And one of these two players. Their choice. We give them the money to rebuild, and we give them a world-class, established superstar to build around. It is an offer of partnership. An offer designed to make everyone stronger."

He stood up, leaving the folder on the table. "The choice, of course, is yours. But I want you to think about it. Think about the challenge. Think about the glory. Think about being the brain of the most exciting attacking force in world football."

He gave a final, warm smile and walked to the door. "Thank you for the coffee, and for the delicious cookie," he said to Elena, who was hovering nervously in the hallway.

And then he was gone.

Leon just sat there, in the quiet of his living room, the red folder a burning, impossible object on his coffee table.

He was no longer just a player being offered a new job. He was a king being offered a new kingdom, and the price of his acceptance was a piece of his own.

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