"Soriano! What the hell are you doing?!"
Sinisa Mihajlović's roar was loud enough to vibrate the glass in the VIP boxes. On the touchline, the Sampdoria manager was a pillar of fury. "Aggression! I asked for blood, not a shadow! How is that kid still picking us apart?"
Roberto Soriano felt like he was walking on broken glass. The tactical shift to man-mark Renzo Uzumaki was supposed to be a straitjacket; instead, it was becoming a highlight reel for the teenager. Every time Soriano thought he had the boy pinned, the ball was gone before he could even plant his lead foot.
Goaded by his manager's scream, Soriano lost his cool. As a ball zipped toward Renzo near the center circle, the veteran didn't wait for the touch. He lunged, a desperate, scissoring tackle intended to take both the ball and the boy's confidence.
But Renzo had seen him coming.
Instead of the one-touch pass Soriano expected, Renzo planted his lead foot and dropped his shoulder, shielding the ball with his back. Soriano's lunging leg found nothing but Renzo's calf.
TWEEEEEET!
The referee sprinted over, the whistle held firm. He didn't hesitate, reaching into his pocket and flashing a Yellow Card in Soriano's face.
"You've got to be kidding me!" Soriano hissed, throwing his hands up. He looked down at Renzo, who was dusting himself off with a calm, almost maddeningly polite smile.
That smile was the final straw. Soriano's composure didn't just crack; it disintegrated. Across the stadium, the traveling Gigliati fans were in hysterics.
"Look at him! He's got Soriano in his pocket!" Alex yelled, slapping the railing. "The kid isn't just a passer; he's a provocateur! He's playing chess while Soriano is playing tag!"
For Renzo, this was all according to plan. His Ball Control had jumped to 75, but he had spent the match "playing down," hiding his ability to hold the ball to lure the defense into a false sense of security. It was the ultimate trap.
The match ticked into the 78th minute. Sampdoria, desperate for a lifeline, launched a furious counter. The substitute Luis Muriel turned Marcos Alonso inside out and whipped a low cross into the box.
Samuel Eto'o, the old Lion, showed why he was a legend. With a phantom-like drift, he shook his marker and threw himself into a diving slide-shot. The ball seemed destined for the bottom corner until Neto, Fiorentina's Brazilian keeper, produced a miracle. He took flight, clawing the ball away with a single, desperate hand.
Badelj cleared the rebound to Aquilani, who looked up and saw the landscape of the pitch shifting.
"Renzo!"
Aquilani fired a line-drive pass to the right flank. As Renzo took the ball, Soriano was instantly on his back. But the yellow card was a heavy weight; Soriano couldn't pull or trip. He had to play it clean.
Soriano watched Renzo's eyes. He saw the teenager look toward Cuadrado, who was screaming for the ball on the right wing. Renzo's dominant foot was his right. Mathematically, the only logical pass was a wide ball to the Colombian.
Soriano committed. He threw his weight toward the right, lunging to intercept the expected pass.
In that split second, Renzo's right foot didn't strike the ball—it hooked it.
With a lightning-fast pull-back and a 180-degree pivot, Renzo executed a perfect turn. He went from facing the right corner flag to facing the left channel in the blink of an eye.
Fake pass. Real turn.
Soriano's momentum carried him three yards in the wrong direction. He looked back, eyes wide with horror, as he realized he'd been sold a dummy by a sixteen-year-old.
"He can dribble?!" Soriano's mind screamed. "Since when can he dribble?!"
Renzo didn't stick around to answer. Now facing the left, he saw the chaos he'd caused. Sampdoria's entire defensive line had tilted right to cover Cuadrado. The left side was an open wound.
Renzo unleashed a diagonal, "Sublime" through-ball. It didn't just roll; it sizzled across the turf, carving through the heart of the 3-5-2 formation.
Mohamed Salah, the Pharaoh, was already in full flight. He collected the pass without breaking stride, cut inside a panicked defender, and unleashed a thunderbolt into the top corner.
3-0.
The Marassi fell silent, save for the pocket of purple fans who were now witnessing a coronation.
Salah sprinted to the corner flag, but he didn't do his usual celebration. He turned back and pointed both hands at Renzo Uzumaki, as if to tell the world: Look at him. Look at what he just did.
Fiorentina hadn't just won a game. They had found the heartbeat of their future.