"Renzo, watch your back," Aquilani murmured as he drifted past the center circle. "The shadow is stuck to you."
Renzo glanced over his shoulder at Luca Marrone. The Juventus-loanee was practically breathing down his neck. "The nail that sticks out gets hammered, Alberto. Being the 'Core' is a heavy crown. I think I'll let a seasoned pro like you carry it for a while."
Aquilani let out a short, dry laugh. "Smooth talker. Fine, kid. Let's show them why experience still matters."
Marrone, overhearing the exchange, felt a surge of triumph. He's folding, Marrone thought. He can't handle the physicality. He's looking for a way out. But as the minutes ticked by, Marrone's "victory" began to feel increasingly hollow.
Fiorentina's rhythm didn't break; it merely shifted. The ball stopped seeking Renzo's boots and started gravitating toward Aquilani. The 31-year-old veteran, a man who had seen every defensive trick in the book from Rome to Merseyside, took the reins with effortless grace. He kept the ball moving, circulating possession and pinning Verona back into a "slow death" by a thousand passes.
Renzo, meanwhile, seemed to have given up on the game entirely. He wasn't calling for the ball. He wasn't making surging runs. He was simply... wandering. He drifted toward the left touchline with the casual air of a man taking a Sunday stroll through the Boboli Gardens.
Marrone followed. He was a professional; his orders were absolute. Do not let number 21 breathe. But Renzo's relaxed expression—the way he looked at the stands or adjusted his socks—was like a needle pressing into Marrone's pride. I am a Juventus player! Marrone fumed. I am shutting you down! Why aren't you frustrated?!
In the 37th minute, the trap finally snapped shut.
Renzo took a rare pass in the center, used his 77 Ball Control to shield it from Marrone's lunging tackle, and tapped a simple ball back to Aquilani. Immediately, Renzo sprinted—hard—toward the far left corner.
Marrone didn't hesitate. He turned and chased, intent on cutting off the return pass.
On the touchline, Montella's eyes lit up. He saw it before anyone else. Verona was playing a narrow 4-4-2 diamond. They had no natural wide midfielders. Their entire defensive structure on the flanks relied on the defensive midfielders—specifically Marrone—drifting out to support the fullbacks.
By dragging Marrone to the left, Renzo hadn't just moved a player; he had deleted Verona's entire right-side defensive cover.
"ALBERTO! NOW! THE RIGHT!" Montella screamed, his voice cracking over the roar of the crowd.
Aquilani didn't need the shout. He saw the acre of green grass where Juan Cuadrado was already revving his engines. With a single, clinical through-ball, Aquilani bypassed the midfield and found the Colombian.
Without Marrone there to double-team him, Cuadrado was a wolf in a hen house. He scorched the Verona fullback, feinted a shot to draw out the center-back, and then clipped a perfect, hanging cross into the "corridor of uncertainty."
Mario Gomez, the German "Super-Mario," rose above the chaos. He didn't just head the ball; he attacked it with the fury of a man who had been starving for service.
THWACK.
The ball buried itself in the back of the net before the keeper could even blink.
2-0!
The Artemio Franchi erupted. Gomez sprinted to the corner flag, but Aquilani and Cuadrado both turned toward the left wing, pointing at the boy who hadn't even been in the box.
Marrone stood frozen on the left touchline, thirty yards away from the action. He looked at Renzo, then at the scoreboard, then back at Renzo. His face was a mask of pure, existential confusion.
Renzo just gave him a polite nod.
Welcome to the game, Luca, Renzo thought. Sometimes, the most dangerous place to be is exactly where I want you.
30+ chapters are available now and daily updates! @patreon.com/Authorzero