Dynasty Awakening: Building My Own Football Empire

Chapter 300 300: Voice Note from Hell

The FaceTime call ended, leaving the screen of Enzo's iPhone black.For a moment, the War Room was silent. It was the kind of silence you get after a bomb disposal expert cuts the red wire and waits to see if they explode.

"He said yes," Arthur Milton whispered, breaking the tension. He was lying on the floor, staring at the ceiling tiles. "If we beat Dortmund, we get the Next Messi. Is this real life, Boss? Or am I in a jelly baby-induced coma?"

"It's real, Arthur," Michael Sterling leaned back in his leather chair, exhaling a breath he felt like he'd been holding since Tuesday. "But 'if' is a heavy word. Dortmund isn't a Sunday League team. They're the Yellow Wall."

Kenji Sato was already on his phone, pacing frantically. "I am buying a llama. Julian is Argentinean. They like llamas, right? I will put it in the garden of his new house. It will be a welcome gift. Is a llama aggressive? Can Diego ride it?"

"Kenji, stop buying livestock," Michael rubbed his temples. "We need to focus."

But something was nagging at him. A small, persistent itch in the back of his brain.

My dad watches your press conferences.

My dad says talk is cheap.

Michael sat up straight.

"Enzo," he said sharply.

The Italian midfielder was polishing his espresso cup with a silk handkerchief. "Sì, Boss?"

"You know Julian," Michael said. "You know his vibe. But... who is his dad?"

Enzo paused. He stopped polishing. A strange look crossed his face—a mixture of respect and mild terror.

"You do not know?" Enzo asked.

"No. I assumed he was... I don't know, an accountant? A nice man who drives him to training?"

Enzo chuckled. It was a dark, dry sound. "Accountant? No, Boss. His father is not an accountant. His father is... history."

"Arthur," Michael snapped his fingers. "Google. Now."

Arthur scrambled up, grabbed his laptop, and typed with trembling fingers.

"Julian Romero... Father..." Arthur muttered. He hit enter.

His eyes went wide. His jaw dropped. He looked like he'd just seen a ghost eating a puppy.

"Oh my god," Arthur squeaked. "Boss... look at this."

He turned the laptop around.

On the screen was a photo from the late 90s. It was a football match. In the foreground, a player was lying on the stretcher, clutching a leg that was bent at a horrifying angle.

Standing over him, with a face like a stone gargoyle and eyes that promised murder, was a man in a River Plate shirt. He was being held back by three referees and a riot police officer.

The headline read: EL CARNICERO STRIKES AGAIN: PABLO ROMERO RED CARD RECORD BROKEN.

"Pablo Romero," Michael read the name. "The Butcher."

A memory unlocked in Michael's brain. Not from the System, but from his own childhood watching football highlights on grainy VHS tapes.

Pablo Romero. The defensive midfielder who made Roy Keane look like a yoga instructor. A man who didn't tackle the ball; he tackled the man, his ancestors, and his future children.

"That's his dad?" Michael asked, his voice rising. "The Architect is the son of The Butcher?"

"Sì," Enzo nodded gravely. "It is a famous story in South America. The father destroys. The son creates. Balance of the universe."

"Fuck me," Michael whispered. "No wonder the kid likes pirates. He was raised by a warlord."

"Boss," Arthur pointed at the screen, scrolling down. "It says here that Pablo Romero retired after headbutting a referee in the Copa Libertadores final. He now runs a cattle ranch in the Pampas. He hunts wild boars with a knife."

"With a knife?" Kenji stopped pacing. "I like him. Can we sign him too?"

"He is fifty years old, Kenji!" Michael shouted. "And he is terrifying!"

Suddenly, Enzo's phone buzzed on the desk.

BZZZZT.

Everyone froze.

"It is Julian," Enzo said, looking at the screen. "He sent a voice note."

"Play it," Michael ordered. "Speaker."

Enzo tapped the screen.

Julian's voice filled the room. He sounded breathless, like he had just run up a flight of stairs.

"Enzo! Michael! I told my dad. I told him about the pirates. I told him about the bald guy."

There was a rustling sound on the recording. Then, a muffled conversation in Spanish.

Then, a new voice spoke.

It wasn't Julian.

It was a voice that sounded like gravel being crushed in a blender. It was deep, heavy, and radiated pure testosterone.

"Sterling."

Michael instinctively sat up straighter in his chair, even though it was a recording.

"This is Pablo. The father."

Arthur whimpered and hid behind a cushion.

"I watch you," the voice growled. "I watch your team. You have the bald one. Nunez. He is... good. He has the fire. He bites the post. I like this."

A pause. A heavy intake of breath.

"My son... he is soft. He is an artist. He paints pictures. Pah! I tell him, pictures do not win wars. Blood wins wars."

Kenji was nodding enthusiastically. "Yes! Blood! Tell him, Pablo!"

"But," the voice continued. "I see your team against Madrid. I see you shove the assistant manager when he faints. I see you fight the fourth official. You have cojones, Sterling. Big cojones."

Michael felt a strange flush of pride. Being complimented on his testicles by The Butcher of Buenos Aires was weirdly validating.

"So, we make a deal. You want my boy? You want the Prince?"

The voice dropped even lower.

"Beat the Germans. Dortmund. They are tall. They are organized. I hate them. You break their wall. You make them cry. If you do this... I send you my son. And I send you a crate of my best beef."

The recording ended with a click.

Silence descended on the War Room.

"Did..." Arthur slowly lowered the cushion. "Did The Butcher just offer us beef?"

"He offered us his blessing," Michael said, staring at the phone. "And beef. Which is basically the same thing in Argentina."

"He hates Germans," Kenji noted. "Very specific. I wonder why?"

"Probably tackled a German once and broke his own foot," Enzo shrugged. "Pablo is a simple man. He likes violence and steak."

Michael stood up. He walked to the window, looking out at the dark training pitch.

The stakes had just shifted.

Before, beating Dortmund was about glory. It was about proving the Madrid win wasn't a fluke.

Now?

It was a dowry.

He had to win a football match to earn the right to adopt the son of a mythical warlord.

"This explains everything," Michael murmured. "Why Julian is hesitant about City. Pep Guardiola would try to teach Pablo Romero about 'inverted fullbacks'. Pablo would probably eat Pep's clipboard."

"And us?" Arthur asked.

"We are Misfits," Michael turned around, a grin spreading across his face. "We are the only club crazy enough for that family."

He looked at the System Interface hovering in the corner of his vision.

[HIDDEN OBJECTIVE UPDATED]

[TARGET: IMPRESS THE DAD]

[REQUIREMENT: HIGH INTENSITY. AGGRESSION. CHAOS.]

[BONUS REWARD: PABLO ROMERO'S PROTECTION (PASSIVE SKILL)]

"Okay," Michael clapped his hands. "Change of plans."

"Change of plans?" Arthur asked nervously. "Are we not parking the bus?"

"No," Michael shook his head. "Parking the bus is tactical. It's smart. But Pablo doesn't want smart. He wants blood."

He looked at Enzo.

"Tell Julian we received the message. Tell him the beef better be ribeye."

"And tell him," Michael's eyes narrowed. "That when Dortmund comes to Oakwell... they aren't going to face a football team. They are going to face a slaughterhouse."

"Jesus Christ, Boss," Arthur whispered. "You sound like him."

"If you want to sign the Prince," Michael said, picking up his cold coffee. "You have to impress the King."

He walked to the door.

"Kenji, cancel the llama."

"Aww," Kenji pouted.

"Buy a bull instead. A big, angry one. Put it in the changing room for the Dortmund game."

"Really?"

"No, Kenji! For fuck's sake!"

Michael walked out into the corridor, laughing. The pressure was immense. The absurdity was off the charts.

But for the first time, he understood Julian Romero. The kid wasn't running away from the pressure of being the 'Next Messi'. He was running towards a place where he could be free.

And apparently, freedom looked like a bald defender and a manager who wasn't afraid to get blood on his suit.

"Dortmund," Michael whispered to the empty hallway. "You poor bastards. You have no idea what's coming."