6. A Legend’s Shadow

Neil Goyal woke to Parma's sunlight streaming through a window, his head pounding like a drum.

The clanging outside—a metallic rhythm—jerked him upright. Memories of the bar fight flooded back: fists, boots, a tall figure intervening.

He checked his clothes, wrinkled but intact, and exhaled. Hangovers were familiar territory, but this was new.

He stumbled out of bed, following the noise downstairs. At the entrance, a tall man tinkered with a motorcycle, tools scattered.

"Ducati V4S? Nice bike," Neil said, his English rough from the night. The man glanced up, catching "Ducati" and "V4S." "You know bikes?" he replied, his accent thick. Neil grinned. "Rode a few. That four-to-two-cylinder switch? Weak. Real men need four."

The man chuckled, impressed. Neil, a former bike obsessive with a garage full of rare models, was being modest.

To him, the V4S was a grocery-run toy, but the man's care for it sparked respect. "You look lively for a guy who got jumped," the man said.

Neil flexed, masking his headache. "I bounce back fast." The man offered lunch, but Neil declined. "Gotta run. I am here to sign Buffon. Maybe Ibrahimović too."

The man's eyes widened. "Buffon? Zlatan?" Neil shrugged, assuming every Italian knew them. "Buffon's thinking it over. Ibrahimović's tough to reach."

The man smirked. "Zlatan's Swedish-Croatian, not Italian. He's a hard nut to crack, tied to Milan's legacy."

Neil flushed, caught out. "You know your stuff." The man waved it off. "Good luck. If you need help? Find me." Neil nodded. "Thanks for last night, uncle. Get a new bike—that one's maxed out."

Neil left, unaware his 10,000 Euros lay on the bedside table, untouched. Back at the Thakur Hotel, Kunaal Thakur sat in the lobby's dining area, sipping coffee and scanning his laptop.

Neil, bruised but cocky, joined him. "Any luck with Ibrahimović?" Kunaal sighed. "No. I called every contact last night while you were… out. No one's close to Zlatan. We'd need to beg Milan or stake out their training ground."

Neil frowned. "Stake out? We're not fans begging for selfies." Kunaal nodded. "Exactly. A chairman loitering at Milan's gate screams desperate. Zlatan wouldn't join a club like that."

Neil rubbed his jaw, wincing. "Met a guy last night—an older fan, knew a ton about Zlatan. Said he's a legend at Milan." Kunaal's eyes narrowed. "You and this guy…"

Neil cut him off. "Not like that! His place had posters of some old player—same guy, I think." Kunaal opened his laptop, pulling up images of Italian footballers from the '70s and '80s.

Neil scrolled, then froze. "That's him!" Kunaal's jaw dropped. "Luca Toni? The World Cup winner?" Neil blinked. "Who?"

Kunaal pulled up Toni's profile. Luca Toni, born 1977, a former Italian striker nicknamed "The Bomber." He rose from Modena in Serie C to Palermo, scoring 20 goals in Serie A by 2004.

At Fiorentina, he netted 31 goals in 2005–06, a Serie A record not seen in 47 years. He joined Bayern Munich in 2007, later Genoa, and retired at Verona in 2016. "This guy saved you?" Kunaal asked, stunned. Neil nodded. "Yeah, and rides a cheap Ducati."

Kunaal shook his head. "Not every ex-star stays rich. Toni's doing alright, but some end up broke, like NBA players." Neil, an NBA buff, got it.

"Crazy. He's a legend, and I called him uncle." Kunaal smirked. "You're lucky he didn't deck you for that." Anna Weber, joining them with her tablet, overheard. Her respect for Kunaal's research grew; Neil's recklessness, less so.

They strategized over lunch. Buffon's decision was pending, but Ibrahimović was critical. At 42, his leadership at AC Milan—fresh off a European semi-final—made him a long shot, but his mental edge could lift Munich 1860.

"We need a direct pitch," Kunaal said. "Sell him on building a legacy, not just cash." Neil, eyeing Anna, added, "She's a Zlatan fan. Gotta sign him for her." Anna flushed, staying professional. "I'm here to translate, not cheer."

Neil's bruises throbbed, prompting a plan. "Let's find Toni. He might know Zlatan's circle."

Kunaal agreed, impressed by Neil's focus. Anna arranged transport, her efficiency seamless.

They drove to a quiet residential area by the Parma River, where Toni's wife, Matache, greeted them. "Luca! Your Asian friend's back!" she called. Toni, lounging in a sunlit chair, waved them in.

Toni's home was modest, adorned with football relics—posters of his younger self, a Bayern Munich jersey, a World Cup medal replica.

Neil, Kunaal, and Anna sat in the cozy living room, Matache offering espresso. "Didn't expect you back," Toni said, grinning at Neil. "Feeling better?" Neil nodded, sheepish. "Thanks for saving me. I didn't know you were… you."

Toni laughed. "No worries. I help when I see trouble."

Kunaal cut in, respectful. "Mr. Toni, we're with Munich 1860. We're building a club to reach the Bundesliga, maybe Europe. We're after Buffon and Ibrahimović."

Toni raised a brow. "Big names for a 3. Liga team." Neil leaned forward. "We've got vision. Indian owners, global ambitions. You know Zlatan—any way to reach him?"

Toni sipped his coffee, thoughtful. "Zlatan's loyal to Milan. You'd need a bold pitch—something personal, not just money. I don't know his agent, but I can ask around."

Anna translated his Italian, her voice steady. Kunaal nodded. "We'd appreciate any lead." Neil, watching Anna, saw her focus mirror Toni's calm—another challenge he craved.

They discussed Munich 1860's roster: 25 players, including forwards Vones, Lakenmacher, Lex; midfielders Dressman, Moll; defenders Flat, Steinhart; goalkeepers Schiller, Kretzschmar. "Half won't stay," Kunaal said.

"Vones and Lex have potential; the rest need replacing." Toni, intrigued, offered insights. "Look at Serie B for young talents. They're hungry, affordable." Anna noted his advice, impressed by his knowledge.

Kunal and Neil was impressed by Luca influence and asked him to come to Munich 1860 as a Sporting Director akin to Deko in Barcelona. Although sudden Toni said he will thought over it and tell them his decision later on.

As they left, Toni handed Neil his 10,000 Euros. "Found this on your bed. Be careful next time." Neil, humbled, thanked him. Back at the hotel, Kunaal reviewed Toni's leads, while Neil plotted his next move with Anna. "Dinner tonight?" he asked. Anna shook her head. "Work first, Mr. Goyal." Her resolve only fueled his chase.

The Parma trip had shifted gears. Toni's connection could crack open Ibrahimović's door, and Neil's brush with danger sharpened his focus. Munich 1860's dream—a bridge for Indian football—was alive, with legends like Buffon and Zlatan in sight.