The black audi a8 bulletproof car was like a silent shark, cruising along Barcelona's famous Diagonal Avenue.
The scenery outside the window gradually shifted from the ancient Gothic Quarter to glass-walled buildings filled with modern flair. The air here was less salty and humid from the sea, and more of the cold, enticing stench of money.
The destination was two pitch-black skyscrapers—the headquarters of CaixaBank. This was Catalonia's "purse" and the most influential financial heart of all Spain.
Inside the car, Barça CEO Òscar Grau clutched his iPad tightly, his palms soaked with sweat. He stole a glance at the Chairman beside him, his heart filled with shock and suspicion.
At this moment, Bartomeu was resting with his eyes closed, his fingers tapping rhythmically on his knees as if playing a silent piano piece. What Grau didn't know was that the name of this piece was "Greed."
"Óscar," Bartomeu suddenly spoke, his eyes still closed, "what is the current European Central Bank benchmark interest rate?"
Grau froze for a moment and answered reflexively, "Uh... it's 0%. The deposit facility rate is negative, -0.4%."
"Exactly, the era of negative interest rates." Bartomeu opened his eyes, looking at the approaching black twin towers outside the window. "It means money sitting in the bank is a loss. It means the market is flooded with cheap capital, like hungry wild dogs searching for assets that can appreciate. And FC Barcelona is the juiciest piece of meat."
"But Chairman, our debt ratio is already very high..."
"That's a structural issue, not a solvency issue." Bartomeu gave a cold smile. "We've been borrowing short-term high-interest loans to fill liquidity gaps; that's the poor man's way of borrowing. Today, I'm going to teach you how to borrow money like the rich."
The car stopped. Several bank executives in suits were already waiting at the entrance. Although the Barça Chairman held a high status in Catalonia, in the past, Bartomeu mostly came here to beg and plead for credit lines.
But today, the aura had changed.
Bartomeu pushed the door open and got out. Instead of his usual fawning smile, he straightened his cuffs, held his head high, and walked straight toward the VIP elevator. His pace was so fast that the bank executives behind him actually had to trot to keep up... The top floor of CaixaBank, the Chairman's office.
Sitting in this room was Isidro Fainé, known as the "Shadow King of Catalonia." He was the soul of CaixaBank, holding the power of life and death over countless enterprises.
"Josep, I heard your house is on fire?" Fainé put down his cigar, looking at the entering Bartomeu with a faint smile. "Neymar is gone, and the fans are rioting. If you're here for a bridge loan to buy Coutinho, I must remind you that the bank's risk management department is very concerned about Barça's current wage structure."
That's a banker for you. Lending an umbrella on a sunny day and taking it back when it rains.
Bartomeu didn't answer immediately. He walked to the massive floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the entire city of Barcelona. From here, he could see the spires of the Sagrada Família and catch a glimpse of the distant Camp Nou.
"Isidro, how much do you think Camp Nou is worth?" Bartomeu asked suddenly.
"It's a priceless treasure, a spiritual totem of Catalonia," Fainé replied in official jargon.
"No, on a financial statement, it's just a pile of heavily depreciated concrete." Bartomeu turned around, his gaze turning sharp. "But I have a plan to turn it into a money-printing machine. Espai Barça—this isn't just about renovating the stadium. I'm going to turn it into the largest sports and commercial complex in Europe. Hotels, office buildings, e-sports arenas, museums... I want tourists to be willing to spend money at Camp Nou even on non-match days."
Fainé frowned. "Rosell mentioned this plan during his tenure, but the budget is as high as 600 million euros. The current Barça cannot afford this, and no one would dare lend it to you."
"That was yesterday."
Bartomeu walked to the desk, leaning forward with both hands on the edge, adopting a highly aggressive posture.
"Now, I have 222 million euros in cash. This is a gift from PSG."
"And?" Fainé flicked his cigar ash. "You want to deposit this money with me? The interest isn't high."
"No." Bartomeu wagged a finger. "I want to use this 222 million in cash as 'junior capital' for a structured financing deal. Using this as collateral, I want to issue a total of 600 million euros in 'Barça Future Revenue Asset-Backed Securities' to a consortium led by your CaixaBank."
The air in the room froze instantly. Fainé stopped what he was doing and narrowed his eyes to re-evaluate the man before him.
"Asset-Backed Securities? Using what assets? Tickets?"
"Using the commercial development rights of Camp Nou for the next 30 years, along with the sponsorship contract we just renegotiated with Nike." Bartomeu's voice was full of allure, like a salesman peddling a devil's contract. "Isidro, do the math. I have 222 million in cash sitting on the books as a risk buffer. If I don't pay, that money is yours. For the bank, the risk is almost zero."
"And what I want," Bartomeu held up three fingers, "is a 30-year ultra-long-term bond, with an annualized interest rate pushed below 1.8%."
"1.8%? You must be joking!" Fainé laughed. "Spanish government bonds are at that level. You're just a football club."
"I am Barcelona." Bartomeu interrupted coldly. "And if you don't take this deal, turn left out the door; a representative from JPMorgan Chase is waiting for me at the Ritz-Carlton. Wall Street is salivating over assets with top-tier global IP and abundant cash flow."
This was a blatant threat. If Barça, the symbol of Catalonia, turned to embrace American capital, Fainé's local prestige would take a massive hit.
The two stared at each other for a full ten seconds. Sparks seemed to crackle in the air.
Finally, Fainé burst into laughter, breaking the deadlock. "Josep, why didn't I realize before that you're a damn banker? It seems Neymar's departure has driven you mad, or... woken you up."
"Or the latter," Bartomeu replied flatly.
"2.2%." Fainé began to haggle. "1.8% is too low; the board won't pass it."
"1.9%, not a point higher." Bartomeu didn't budge an inch. "In exchange, I will designate CaixaBank as the sole bank for Barça's player salary settlements for the next ten years. You know what that means—the private banking and wealth management services for those stars will all be yours."
Fainé's eyes lit up. The asset management for people like Messi and Suárez would be a massive piece of the pie.
"Deal." Fainé extended his hand. "But I have one condition. This financing must be for specific purposes only—stadium renovation and debt restructuring—and cannot be used to buy players."
"Of course." Bartomeu shook the old but powerful hand, a slight smile touching the corners of his mouth. "The money for buying players, I'll earn back in another way."
...Half an hour later, when Bartomeu walked out of the CaixaBank building, Òscar Grau was walking on air. The memorandum of understanding for financing he just signed felt like a hot potato in his hand.
"Chairman... we really got it? 600 million euros? At a 1.9% interest rate?" Grau felt like he was dreaming. Originally, Barça was still worrying about next month's short-term loans; in the blink of an eye, they had become tycoons holding massive amounts of long-term, low-interest capital.
"It's called 'debt restructuring'." Bartomeu sat in the car, loosened his tie, and let out a long breath. "Using low-interest long-term debt to replace those damn high-interest short-term debts. This way, our annual financial costs will drop by 40 million euros. Óscar, do you know what that means?"
"It means we're profitable?"
"It means we have 40 million more room to maneuver under the salary cap!" A flash of ruthlessness appeared in Bartomeu's eyes. "With this space, I'll have the confidence to clear out the trash in the locker room."
Just then, Bartomeu's private phone rang. Caller ID: Ahmet Bulut, Arda Turan's agent.
Bartomeu looked at the screen and sneered. Speak of the devil. In the original history, Turan was one of the biggest "salary thieves" in Barça and the entire football world. High salary, low ability, and refusing to leave, he was eventually sentenced in Turkey for involvement with gangs and gun possession, bringing countless stains to Barça's name.
"Answer it." Bartomeu pressed the answer button, his voice instantly turning cold as ice.
"Hey! Josep! My friend!" Bulut's oily voice came from the other end. "I heard Neymar left? What a pity. But this is a great opportunity for Arda; he's ready to take over the number 11 jersey! You know, he was the core at Atlético Madrid; as long as you let him play..."
"Ahmet," Bartomeu interrupted his rambling, "where is Arda right now?"
"Uh... he's on vacation in Istanbul. You know, the season hasn't fully started yet..."
"Today is the third day of the team's assembly." Bartomeu glanced at his watch. "He's 72 hours late."
"Oh, come on, Josep. It's just a little cold..."
"Listen." Bartomeu's voice wasn't loud, but it carried a chilling authority. "Notify Arda that I want to see him at Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper by 8:00 AM tomorrow. If he's even a minute late, I will suspend his salary for a month on the grounds of'serious disciplinary violation'."
"What?! You can't do that! This is disrespectful to the player!" Bulut panicked. "Galatasaray is contacting us for a loan..."
"A loan? No." A cruel curve touched the corner of Bartomeu's mouth. "I won't accept any loan where Barça covers the salary. You can tell him he has two choices:"
"First, contact clubs in the Chinese Super League immediately. Whether it's Shanghai SIPG or Beijing Guoan, as long as the transfer fee exceeds 20 million euros, I'll let him go. I know the Chinese Super League transfer window isn't fully closed yet; that's the only place he can still get a high salary."
"Second," Bartomeu paused, "he can stay. But I guarantee that during the remaining two years of his contract, he won't play even a single minute of a reserve team match. I'll arrange a dedicated seat in the stands for him so he can watch Messi play. Oh, and I'll ban him from the locker room because his lazy attitude is contagious."
"You're crazy! I'm going to sue you! I'll go to FIFA..."
"Go ahead. Barça's legal department is quite free right now," Bartomeu said calmly. "Also, remind your client to stay away from casinos and stop hanging out with shady characters. If I see another photo of him lingering in nightclubs in Barcelona, I will terminate his contract immediately on the grounds of 'damaging the club's image' without paying his remaining salary."
Beep— Bartomeu hung up the phone immediately.
In the front seat, Grau listened in stunned silence, cold sweat pouring down. "Chairman... isn't this too aggressive? What about the locker room..."
"The locker room only respects the strong." Bartomeu tossed his phone aside and closed his eyes. "When they see even a troublemaker like Turan being brought to heel, those who want to stir up trouble for raises or try to slack off will have to weigh their own importance."
A deathly silence fell over the car. Grau looked in the rearview mirror at the man who seemed to be napping, a sense of unprecedented awe rising in his heart. Was this still the weak Chairman nicknamed "Nobita"? This was practically a tyrant!
But it had to be admitted that this tyrannical approach was exactly what the chaotic Barça needed right now.
"Where to? Back to Camp Nou?" the driver asked softly.
Bartomeu opened his eyes, his gaze fixed on the sun setting outside the window. The sunset glow on the horizon was red as blood, and also like the red stripes on the Barça jersey.
"No, to Castelldefels." His voice became a bit hoarse but firm. "The hardest part is coming."
Dealing with bankers relies on interests; dealing with agents relies on tactics. But to deal with Leo Messi, one can only rely on—sincerity and a pure understanding of football.
The car turned around and headed toward the seaside.
Bartomeu felt his suit pocket, where a folded tactical diagram lay, covered in names and lines. It was a "blueprint for revival" he had spent two sleepless nights tailoring for the post-Neymar era, combining memories from his past life with data analysis.
"Leo..." he murmured the name in his heart. "In this timeline, I won't let you weep with your face in your hands at Anfield, nor will I let you swallow the bitter 2-8 pill in Lisbon. You are the King of Football; you should grow old on your throne, not in the ruins."
...Castelldefels, Messi's private residence.
At this moment, Messi was sitting in front of his floor-to-ceiling window, watching his children run in the garden, but his eyes were somewhat hollow. The news was playing on the TV nearby, showing Neymar juggling the ball in a PSG jersey; that piercing smile caused him a pang of pain.
"Leo, Bartomeu is here." His wife, Antonela, walked over, holding a cup of mate tea, looking at her husband with concern. "He said he wants to talk to you, not as the Chairman, but as a... fan?"
Messi frowned. "Is that liar here to sell me a pipe dream again?"
"He said he brought a bottle of good wine, and..." Antonela hesitated, "and said that if he can't convince you within half an hour, he'll resign immediately."
Messi froze for a moment and turned toward the door. Through the security screen, he saw Bartomeu standing outside the gate. No bodyguards, no entourage, holding a bottle of red wine in one hand and a... tactical board in the other?
The Chairman who was always in a suit with a fake smile had now loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. He looked a bit disheveled, yet exceptionally real.
"Let him in." Messi sighed and stood up.
At this time, he did not know that this meeting would completely change the course of history for him, for Barça, and even for the entire world of football.
The man standing at the door brought not only red wine but also a crazy promise about a "Sextuple."