Leon, feeling slightly star-struck, sat down opposite him. "It was... a fight, sir," he said, the words feeling completely inadequate.

"It was a masterpiece," Marotta corrected him with a smile. "A masterpiece of heart. And you, my boy, were the artist who painted the final stroke." He leaned forward, his expression turning from warm to one of shrewd, professional focus. "Your coach tells me you have attracted some... attention. From England. From Spain."

Leon just nodded, unsure what to say.

"This is normal," the President continued. "When a lion is born, all the other animals in the jungle take notice. And make no mistake, that is what you are. A young lion, with the potential to be the king." He paused, letting the words sink in. "We know they will come for you. They will offer you mountains of gold. They will promise you the world."

He took a sip of his water.

"We cannot offer you the world, Leon. We can only offer you a kingdom. Our kingdom."

He slid a sleek, leather-bound folder across the coffee table.

"This is our new contract proposal for you. It will make you the highest-paid player at this club, and one of the highest-paid players in the history of Inter Milan. We want you to know how much we value you, not just as a player, but as the future of this family."

Leon was speechless.

He opened the folder, and the numbers he saw were so large they didn't seem real. But it was the next part that truly took his breath away.

"The money is just business," Marotta said, waving a dismissive hand. "It is the second part that is more important. The 'new responsibility' your coach mentioned. We are offering you the position of vice-captain, effective immediately."

Leon's head snapped up, his eyes wide with shock.

"Lautaro is our captain. He is our leader, our gladiator," the President said with deep respect.

"But you... you are our brain. Our visionary. As vice-captain, you will be the bridge. The link between the coach's tactical mind and the team's heart on the pitch. You will be a mentor to the young players coming through—the wonderkids like Russo and your future brother-in-law," he added, a knowing, mischievous twinkle in his eye that nearly made Leon choke.

"You will be more than just a star player," Marotta finished, his voice filled with a powerful sincerity. "You will be a guardian of our future. A leader. The prince to Lautaro's king."

Leon just stared at the contract, his mind a complete whirlwind. This was more than a job. It was an anointment.

"I... I don't know what to say, sir," he stammered, completely overwhelmed.

"You don't have to say anything now," the President said kindly.

"The season is over. You have earned a rest. Take a week. Talk to your family. Think about the kind of man, and the kind of king, you want to be. Then, give us your answer."

When Leon finally walked back to the dressing room, his mind still spinning, he was greeted by the expectant, curious faces of his teammates.

"You were gone a long time!" Lautaro said, a suspicious grin on his face. "Did you get a detention?"

"Worse," Julián Álvarez whispered dramatically, his eyes wide.

"It was a secret briefing. They've activated him. He's a sleeper agent. His code name is 'The White-Haired Flamingo'."

The team burst out laughing. Leon just shook his head, a wide, genuine smile on his face.

"We were just talking about the future," he said, the understatement of the century.

"And about pizza. The President is a big fan of a classic margherita."

That night, the city of Milan belonged to them.

They descended upon a lively, buzzing restaurant in the heart of the city, the Scudetto shield and the Coppa Italia trophy given their own table, like honored guests.

The night was a joyous, chaotic celebration of their incredible season. They ate, they drank, they laughed until their sides hurt, recounting the legendary moments that had defined their journey.

"My favorite moment," Dimarco declared, raising a glass of soda, "was the cat. In the final. That cat had more composure than half their team. I say we sign him. Give him the number 10 jersey."

"No, no," Bastoni argued, a huge grin on his face.

"The best moment was Julián's Panenka. My heart stopped. It was the slowest, ugliest, most beautiful goal I have ever seen in my life."

"It was a calculated risk!" Julián insisted. "I lulled the keeper into a false sense of security with the sheer, unexpected badness of the shot! It was tactical genius!"

They talked about their plans for the summer holiday, a well-deserved break after a long and grueling season.

Palmer was heading back to London to see his family. Lautaro was taking his wife to the Amalfi Coast. Julián announced he was going on a "philosophical journey" to find the world's most confusingly shaped pasta.

As the night began to wind down, a comfortable, happy exhaustion settling over the group, Hakan Çalhanoğlu, who had been quietly scrolling through his phone, suddenly let out a low whistle.

"Uh oh," he said.

"What is it?" Barella asked, leaning over.

Çalhanoğlu turned his phone around, showing a news alert from a major English sports publication.

The headline was stark, a sudden, unwelcome intrusion of the real world into their perfect, celebratory bubble.

[Manchester United reportedly preparing a shock, record-breaking £120 million bid for Inter's English sensation, Cole Palmer.]

A stunned silence fell over the table.

All eyes turned to Palmer, who just looked at the headline, a completely unreadable, neutral expression on his face.

Leon's heart sank. He looked at his friend, at the man who had become one of the key pillars of their team, at the man who was now the target of one of the richest clubs in the world.

He thought of his new, unofficial role.

The season was over. The celebrations were ending.

And the fight to keep his family together had just begun.

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