Half an hour passed, and he took a simple tour around.
Inzaghi cajoled, "It’s a waste not to throw a party in such a big house of yours. I know someone who can pack your yard with supermodels in two hours."
Huang Kaiwen didn’t say a word and headed straight into the house.
Inzaghi followed behind shouting, "Even if we don’t invite that many supermodels, having two each wouldn’t be bad."
"Barbara is coming back soon. I hope you can still say that then," Huang Kaiwen reminded.
"What did I say? I’m just visiting you in Madrid like normal," Inzaghi retorted.
Barbara is the club president, and she’s much tougher than Gagliani.
Inzaghi, despite his age, was still thinking about retiring in Milan.
Taking advantage of the national team match day, Capello returned to Italy.
Since he couldn’t find a suitable candidate in Spain, he decided to look in Italy.
After the plane landed in Turin, Capello immediately called a taxi.
He found the alley by memory.
The weather in Turin was nice today.
However, the alley still looked ominous and frightening.
This kind of place was prone to high crime rates.
Looking from a distance, the alley seemed endless.
Capello frowned and stood at the entrance for two minutes before he finally gritted his teeth and stepped into the darkness.
To enjoy the light, one must first consort with the dark.
These were merely minor stumbling blocks on his road to success.
He, Fabio Capello, would not be frightened.
The pungent smell was exactly as he remembered.
The stench of dead fish mixed with various kitchen wastes made Capello’s stomach protest.
Capello quickened his steps again.
After a few steps, he felt something slippery underfoot.
Capello took out his phone, crouched slightly to light the area, and cursed, "Shit!"
He wasn’t showing off his English.
He had literally stepped in excrement!
Capello disdainfully scraped his shoe against the wall a few times, sighed, and continued forward.
Luckily, the alley wasn’t long.
After a minute, Capello finally reached the end.
With the feeble daylight, he saw the familiar sign.
He pushed the door and entered.
Capello, sharp, ducked his head to avoid the hanging decorations on the doorframe.
The Real Madrid manager finally smiled.
It wasn’t all bad news.
A short man looked up, revealing a sycophantic smile.
"Hello, master," Capello said in proper Mandarin.
The short man paused, then responded in Italian, "I haven’t been back for a long time, Italian would be better."
After Capello nodded, he asked, "Can you protect a Chinese person from harm for a period of time? Do you have a way?"
"Yes, yes, Chinese people don’t harm Chinese people!"
The dark-skinned short man nodded vigorously.
"That’s very good," Capello sighed with relief, then asked again, "Is it going to be very troublesome? If it’s too troublesome, I might not be able to handle it correctly."
"Not troublesome, not troublesome!!!"
The man waved his hands repeatedly, propped himself with one hand on the counter, and began sifting through drawers.
After opening several drawers and finding nothing,
suddenly, the short man slapped his head and dug through the counter again.
He hurried to the door, took down a painting from it.
The painting depicted a Taoist in a yellow robe, surrounded by the I Ching trigrams.
Capello nodded inwardly.
Based on his understanding of China, these were indeed Chinese things.
It seemed that such matters still required a Chinese.
The short man handed the painting to Capello and said, "Post this within 100 meters of the target, 82.5 euros, not a cent less, less means insincerity, and insincerity means it won’t work."
Capello handed over a hundred-euro bill and said, "Keep the change. What’s the spell?"
The short man took the money and upon hearing Capello’s words, paused, then immediately nodded, "Yes, the spell, there’s also a spell."
As the short man paced inside, biting his lip,
Capello dared not even breathe heavily, afraid to disturb the master’s thought process.
"The spell, the spell, I remember now!"
The man clapped his hands excitedly and said, "Chinese emperor, I was wrong, please don’t hit me anymore. That’s the spell!"
Listening to the proper Mandarin, Capello nodded slightly; the master was indeed a master. Even after leaving the Chinese linguistic environment, he was clear about spells, sounding just like a Mandarin language class teacher.
"Chinese emperor, I was wrong, please don’t hit me anymore."
Capello murmured quietly.
It was a bit of a tongue twister.
He took out a voice recorder from his pocket, saw that it was recording, and finally reassured, Capello turned and pushed the door to leave.