That evening, Luca returned to his apartment and took a long, hot shower, washing away the day’s fatigue and sweat.
He had just stepped out of the bathroom, towel drying his hair, when his phone rang.
Raiola’s name flashed on the screen.
“Hey, Luca!
Good evening, my dear friend!”
Luca answered with a smile.
“Good evening, Mino.
Calling this late.
Something important?”
“Two pieces of good news!”
Raiola’s voice dripped with satisfaction.
“First.
Napoli has decided to sell you to Paris Saint-Germain!
Their owner is willing to pay 80 million euros!”
Luca nearly dropped his towel.
He froze.
“What…?
Paris?
80 million?”
His mind went blank.
He had played two Serie A matches.
And now he was being sold to PSG?
He had not even played in the Champions League yet.
Silence on the line for two seconds.
Then Raiola burst out laughing.
“Ha!
Luca!
You fell for it!
Just kidding!
You should have seen your face!”
Luca exhaled, equal parts annoyed and amused.
“Mino!
You bastard!
You scared me to death!”
He patted his chest.
His heart was still pounding.
Raiola laughed until he was satisfied, then his tone turned slightly more serious.
But he had not been entirely joking.
The Ligue 1 giants had indeed contacted him through intermediaries, expressing strong interest in signing Luca.
Only the price and the player’s willingness remained unresolved.
He kept that information to himself for now and continued.
“All right, all right.
No more teasing.
First good news.
You’re getting a raise!
From 20,000 a week to 100,000.”
Luca knew a raise was inevitable given his performances, but not this fast.
“This quick?
Any conditions?
Contract extension?”
“No conditions.
Pure raise.
A reward for your performances.” Raiola explained.
“De Laurentiis wants you on a long contract.
I’ve been stalling for you.
Let’s lock in the raise first.
Your market value is already estimated at 30 million euros.
Congratulations, young man.
You’re becoming a real asset.”
Luca felt a weight lift.
30 million euros.
For a 17-year-old with two Serie A appearances, enormous recognition.
“Second good news.
You’ve got your first endorsement deal!” Raiola continued.
“A local Naples outdoor clothing brand.
Mainly windbreakers.
Not an international giant, but genuine and hometown support.
I’ll send you the contract.
Take a look.”
Luca was pleasantly surprised.
An endorsement meant commercial value beyond the pitch.
I’ll look.”
He ended the call and opened Raiola’s email.
The brand was called “Vesuvio Outdoor.” The logo was a chubby little donkey carrying a hiking backpack.
Cute.
The products were solid-color windbreakers.
Simple, clean designs.
The endorsement fee was 200,000 euros for one year.
For Luca, whose current savings were only 100,000 euros, this was significant income.
Years of football earnings, minus rent and living expenses, had not accumulated much.
He replied to Raiola with an OK emoji.
“Can sign.”
Raiola replied instantly.
“Tomorrow afternoon.
They’ll send someone to pick you up.”
Luca replied “No problem” and put the phone aside.
The night deepened.
Luca watched some match footage, analyzing the movement and ball handling of midfield maestros.
He grew bored, stood, and walked to the collection cabinet in the corner of his room.
The cabinet held all his medals and keepsakes from his youth academy days to now.
From the U14 regional league winner’s medal, to the U17 youth league MVP trophy, to the man of the match award from Round 1.
Row after row.
Soft gleam under the warm light.
His eyes landed on a special medal in the corner.
A miniature medal made from a beer bottle cap.
The cap was flattened, an “L” carved in the center, edged with colored plastic paper.
Luca picked it up.
His fingertip traced the uneven surface.
A warm smile spread across his face.
He remembered that summer.
The man who always had a cigarette in his mouth.
The man whose face crinkled when he smiled.
He picked up his phone and scrolled to a number he had not called in a long time.
The contact name: “Uncle.”
He hesitated.
Checked the time.
Nearly 11 PM.
Milan would be even later.
“Never mind.
I’ll call tomorrow.” He put the phone down, carefully returned the beer cap medal to its place, closed the cabinet, yawned, and walked to the bedroom.
Meanwhile, in Milan, on the outskirts.
Capela dragged his tired body home.
He was an ordinary worker at a machining factory.
Every day, overtime until after 10 PM.
His meager wages supported his wife and three children.
Tight.
Always tight.
But today at the factory, he had overheard colleagues talking about a teenage prodigy named Luca.
Capela was Italian, but he was not interested in football.
He had not paid much attention.
“Did you hear, Rosa?” one coworker said.
“That Luca at Napoli.
Four assists in two matches!
The news is exploding!
They say his value is already 30 million!”
“If only he were my son.”
Capela paused.
His step faltered.
Luca?
Napoli?
He suddenly thought of his nephew.
The boy who had lost his parents young.
The boy he had sent to Napoli to play football.
“Probably just a coincidence.” He shook his head and muttered.
How could it be?
His nephew, sure, had been good as a kid.
But two matches shocking all of Italy?
Impossible.
He pushed open the door.
“Daddy!” A little girl flew at him like a swallow, hugging his leg.
His youngest, Elena.
Two pigtails.
Bright eyes.
Capela’s tired face broke into a smile.
He scooped her up and kissed her cheek.
“Why are you still awake?
It’s so late.”
His wife poked her head from the kitchen, preparing his late dinner.
“She’s been pestering me.
Wants to sign up for ballet.
Won’t sleep until I say yes.”
Capela put Elena down, crouched, and patted her head.
“You want to dance?
That’s good!
Sign up.
How much?”
His wife wiped her hands and walked over, worry on her face.
“I asked.
700 euros a month.
Too expensive.”
Capela went silent.
He looked at his daughter’s hopeful eyes, then thought of his meager salary.
Something blocked his chest.
He stood and patted her shoulder.
“Go to sleep, sweetheart.
Daddy will figure out the money.”
Elena nodded obediently, kissed his cheek, and skipped to her room.
His wife sighed and turned to clear the table.
“Italy’s economy is terrible.
Layoffs everywhere.
Why waste money on that…”
Capela said nothing.
He walked to the balcony, pulled a cigarette from the pack, lit it, and took a deep drag.
In the smoke, he stared at the distant city lights.
His eyes unfocused.
His wife brought out his dinner and suddenly remembered something.
She raised her voice.
“By the way, I saw an article in the paper today.
About a prodigy at Napoli.
Called…
Luca?
I think your brother’s son was named Luca too.
He played for Napoli, right?”
Capela’s fingers holding the cigarette paused.
Second time today.
He remembered the quiet nephew.
The boy who always clung to a football.
After his brother and sister-in-law died, he had wanted to bring Luca to Milan.
But the boy was stubborn.
Said he wanted to keep playing in Naples.
Later, the club covered his expenses.
Then Luca got his own wages and stopped accepting the monthly money Capela sent.
Years since he had seen the boy.
“The paper’s on the balcony table.
Take a look.
The photo.
He looks like your brother when he was young.” His wife’s voice came from inside.
Capela turned.
His eyes landed on the newspaper on the small balcony table, its edges curled by the night breeze.
He stubbed out the cigarette, bent, and picked it up.
The sports front page.
A large color photo.
A dark-haired teenager in a sky-blue number 66 jersey, smiling brightly at the camera.
Sweat traced his temples, but his eyes were bright, full of life.
His arms were raised, as if receiving the cheers of the world.
The headline: “Napoli’s New King Arrives!
17-Year-Old Luca Orchestrates Super Comeback!”
Capela’s eyes locked onto the young, familiar, unfamiliar face.
The face had his brother’s jawline.
His sister-in-law’s soft eyes.
His fingers trembled.
The half-smoked cigarette slipped silently from his lips, hit the ground, and scattered tiny sparks.