5. Trouble in Parma

The private jet touched down in Parma, Italy, carrying Neil Goyal, Kunaal Thakur, Anna Weber, and two assistants.

Their mission: secure a game-changing goalkeeper for Munich 1860. Neil, the club's chairman with 51% ownership, and Kunaal, general manager and sports director with 44%, were deep into their plan to revive the 3. Liga club.

The scrapped 50+1 rule had let them save Munich 1860 from bankruptcy, but fan protests and a mediocre squad kept the pressure on.

At the hotel, a Thakur Hotel Group outpost, Kunaal briefed Neil over espresso. "The goalkeeper's our priority—stability and long-term investment."

Neil frowned. "Buffon wasn't on your list before." Kunaal nodded. "He wasn't. At 45, he's nearing retirement, playing for Parma in Serie B—a homecoming. But his experience could anchor us for a year, maybe two, if we pitch it right."

Neil leaned back. "Money talks." Kunaal shook his head. "Not always. Buffon's a legend. We need to sell the vision, not just the paycheck.

Loris Karius is Plan B." Anna, reviewing notes nearby, admired Kunaal's focus. Her scholarship to LMU demanded hard work, a trait she valued. Neil's charm, though persistent, paled next to Kunaal's diligence.

Parma, nestled along the Parma River, buzzed with history. Its football club, once a "Seven Sisters" powerhouse, had birthed stars like Cannavaro, Crespo, and Buffon.

The trio—Neil, Kunaal, and Anna—met Buffon and his agent at a high-end restaurant, its walls adorned with vintage wine bottles.

Buffon, leaner than on TV, sported a slicked-back hairstyle, graying beard, denim jacket, Levi's 501s, and Red Wing boots. His presence was magnetic.

Anna translated, her Italian flawless. Buffon greeted her warmly, a gentleman's nod. Kunaal asked about his family, easing into pleasantries.

Over Parma ham and risotto, Kunaal made his pitch. "We want you at Munich 1860 next season. Three times your Parma salary, a three-year contract." Buffon's agent whispered to him, then replied, "Gigi needs a few days to consider." Kunaal agreed, expecting no instant decision.

Neil stayed quiet, his eyes on Anna's poised translations. Post-dinner, Buffon left, and Neil asked, "Now what? Back to Munich?"

Kunaal smirked. "We're in Italy. Let's hit our other targets." Neil's eyes lit up. "Ibrahimović?" Anna, overhearing, gasped. "Zlatan? I'm a huge fan." Kunaal raised a brow, amused. Neil, noting her excitement, vowed silently to sign the striker.

Back at the hotel, Kunaal worked the phones, contacting Ibrahimović's circle to arrange a meeting. At 42, Zlatan was a spiritual leader at AC Milan, a Serie A giant despite recent struggles.

His mental strength could transform Munich 1860, but prying him away was a long shot. Anna helped Kunaal's assistants compile player data, her efficiency shining. Neil, hovering, invited her to dinner. "Just us, off the clock."

Anna declined firmly. "I'm here to work, Mr. Goyal." Her tone brooked no argument, and Neil, stung, backed off. Her focus mirrored Kunaal's, leaving Neil feeling outmatched.

Alone, he hit Parma's liveliest bar to drown his frustrations. Unlike Milan's glitz or Rome's revelry, Parma's nightlife was cozy but vibrant, its top bar packed with locals.

Neil's designer suit and Rolex screamed wealth, drawing eyes. Women approached, offering drinks, but he waved them off, annoyed.

Men's gazes lingered, not on him but his valuables. Tipsy after several whiskeys, Neil shouted, "Drinks on me!" The bar cheered, and a group of men sidled up, flattering him with toasts. Neil, sociable by nature, soaked it in, unaware of their glances.

Three rounds later, Neil was drunk, his limbs heavy. The men, sensing their chance, guided him out the back door to a dim alley.

They propped him against a wall, hands rifling his pockets. Neil had 10,000 Euros cash and credit cards—mobile payments were useless in Italy.

Groggy but alert, he clutched his pockets, resisting. The men, frustrated, started swinging, fists and boots bruising his ribs and face.

Neil groaned, his grip loosening. The men snatched the cash, smirking, but a shadow loomed. A tall figure, bottle in hand, blocked their path.

Dressed in a wool overcoat, slim trousers, and polished leather shoes, he radiated wealth and menace. The men, thinking they'd hit another jackpot, advanced. The stranger struck first, his fist sending the leader flying meters away, sprawled unconscious.

A left hook floored the second man. The remaining two lunged, landing blows, but the stranger shrugged them off, his punches cracking bones.

The fight was over in seconds, the men scattered or down. Neil, slumped against the wall, squinted at his rescuer, vision blurry. The man's silhouette was familiar, but darkness swallowed details as Neil passed out.