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“The treasurer. The vice-president. The Argentine fixer we used for the Macaya transfer.” Julio listed them like a roll call of potential traitors. “And the captain.”
They sat.
He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It had arrived by courier at dawn, no return address, just a single line typed in stark capital letters:
Julio, still wearing the same rumpled suit from the night before, stared at the telephone on his desk as if it were a live grenade. The second episode of his presidency had begun not with a kickoff, but with a countdown.
It was never simple. The TV rights deal would funnel millions to the big two—Colo-Colo and Universidad de Chile—while strangling smaller clubs like Palestino. Agreeing would save his skin but starve his team. Refusing would bring down the entire house of cards.
“Sit,” Julio said.
Julio let it ring twice, three times. The old rotary dial seemed to mock him. He picked up.
“What did you tell them?”
