My Ultimate Gacha System-Chapter 334 - 8: An investment

Monday, May 29, 2023 Marco Benetti’s Office, Milan 10:15 AM

Marco’s office was on the fourth floor of a building off Via Turati, and the reception area was small and professional without trying to be impressive — a woman at the desk who knew Demien’s name without being told, a waiting area with two chairs and a table with actual current magazines on it, and Marco’s door opening before the receptionist had finished saying he was expected.

The office itself was the kind of room that belonged to someone who worked in it rather than showed it to people — shelves of binders and folders along one wall, a whiteboard with half-erased text, two monitors on the desk, a view of the street below where the morning traffic moved slowly through Via Turati’s narrow lane. Marco stood and they shook hands across the desk before he gestured to the chairs on the other side.

"Before we start," Marco said, settling back into his chair, "this meeting has nothing to do with transfers. I want to be clear on that."

"Understood," Demien said.

"Good." Marco opened a folder on the desk. "We’re here because you finished your first full professional season, your bonuses have cleared, the Adidas performance clauses triggered, and you currently have more money in your account than you’ve ever had. And because you’re nineteen and haven’t done anything with it yet beyond buying groceries and paying rent." He looked up briefly. "Which is fine — doing nothing is better than doing something stupid. But now we need to make it work properly."

He turned the folder toward Demien and a single page showed a breakdown of what had landed in his account since August — contract salary across the full season, appearance and goal bonuses, the Adidas annual payment plus the performance escalators triggered by the Coppa Italia and the goal tally, and a smaller amount from image rights usage. The total at the bottom, after Italian income tax, was €419,500.

Demien looked at the number for a moment without speaking.

"To most people that’s life-changing money," Marco said. "For a professional footballer at this stage of a career, it’s a foundation — but only if you treat it like one rather than assuming more is always coming." He picked up a pen. "Which is why I asked someone to join us."

The door opened and a woman in her early forties came in, and Marco introduced her as Federica Rossi, and she worked with eight other Serie A players and had done so for twelve years, and she pulled the second chair up to the corner of the desk and set a leather portfolio on her knee.

"I’ve looked at your situation," she said, and her voice was precise in the way that people who work with numbers every day tend to be, "and I want to lay out what I think makes sense. Tell me if anything doesn’t fit."

She opened the portfolio and walked through it. 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝘦𝘸𝑒𝒷𝓃ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝒸ℴ𝘮

A diversified investment portfolio of €200,000 — a mix of index funds and bonds weighted toward stable growth rather than high-risk returns, because the goal at this stage wasn’t to double the money in five years but to make sure it was still there and growing in twenty. "Players who chase returns in their early career often have nothing at thirty-five," she said, and she said it without drama because it wasn’t a warning, just a fact. "Consistent and boring is what you want right now."

Emergency fund of €40,000 in a liquid account — accessible within forty-eight hours if needed, not invested, just sitting. "Medical costs, contract disputes, an agent situation that requires legal support — anything can happen and you need cash that doesn’t require selling something."

€60,000 for personal expenses across the next twelve months — living costs, clothing, social spending, discretionary. "That works out to five thousand a month on top of your salary. It’s comfortable without being reckless."

She paused. "The remaining €119,500 I want to talk through separately because it involves a decision that isn’t purely financial."

Demien looked at Marco, who had his hands folded on the desk and was watching him without expression.

"My mother rents," Demien said. "She’s rented the same place my whole life. I want to buy her somewhere."

Federica didn’t react as though this was unexpected — it was the kind of thing she’d heard before, and she wrote something in her portfolio without comment. "How much are you thinking?"

"Whatever makes sense in Florence," he said. "Residential area, two bedrooms, somewhere she knows. Nothing flashy."

"We’ll need to see what’s available," she said. "But with €80,000 down you’re in a realistic position for that market. I’d suggest viewing first and then we run the numbers on whatever she actually wants, rather than working backwards from a budget she doesn’t know about." She looked at him. "Keep the remaining €39,500 for a car — you don’t have one and at this level you need your own transport. I’d suggest something sensible rather than conspicuous."

She looked at Demien. "Any questions?"

Demien looked at the breakdown on the page for a moment while the office held the particular quiet of a room where a decision was being waited on without pressure.

"Sign the documents," he said.

Marco walked him through the paperwork after Federica left, and he signed six forms across twenty minutes — investment mandate, account structures, power of attorney for Marco to liaise with the investment firm on his behalf, a framework document for the mortgage application. The process was less dramatic than he’d expected, which was what all significant financial decisions looked like in reality rather than how they were described after the fact.

"House viewings Wednesday," Marco said while gathering the signed copies. "I’ve briefed a specialist agent in Florence who works with athletes’ families. Three properties lined up, all residential areas, all within the budget range." He looked up. "I’d suggest bringing your mother."

"Obviously," Demien said.

"And don’t let her talk you out of it," Marco added.

"And don’t let her talk you out of it," Marco added.

Monday Evening Isabella’s Apartment, Florence 7:30 PM

He’d taken the late afternoon train from Milan and arrived at his mother’s apartment just before seven, and Isabella had made dinner without knowing he was coming because he hadn’t called ahead, and when she opened the door and found him there with his overnight bag she made the face she always made — the one that was surprise and happiness and mild exasperation at the lack of warning arriving simultaneously.

"You could have called," she said, already moving back toward the kitchen.

"I was on the train," he said.

"You have a phone on the train," she said.

He sat at the kitchen table while she added pasta to the pot she already had going and the apartment filled with the smell of the sauce that had been sitting on the hob, and they talked about nothing important for the first fifteen minutes the way they always did when he arrived — her week, a problem with a colleague, whether he’d eaten properly on the train.

When she set the plates down and sat across from him he waited until she’d started eating before saying anything.

"I had a meeting today," he said. "With Marco and a financial advisor."

She looked up. "About the transfers?"

"No," he said. "About money. What to do with what I’ve earned this season."

She nodded and waited, and her fork moved without urgency because she’d learned over the years that when he had something to say he said it better without being prompted.

"I want to buy you a flat," he said.

She set her fork down.

"Not rent," he said. "Own. Something in Florence, somewhere you know, proper size. I have enough for a down payment and I can cover the mortgage."

Isabella looked at him for a moment and then looked at her plate, and when she looked back up her expression had the particular complexity of someone receiving something they’d stopped expecting.

"Demien—"

"Before you say it’s too much," he said, "I know what the numbers are, I know what the commitment is, and I’ve thought about it properly. This isn’t me being reckless."

"I wasn’t going to say it’s too much," she said, and her voice was quieter than normal.

"You were," he said.

"I was going to say—" She stopped and picked up her fork again and put it back down. "I was going to say that I have been renting that flat since before you were born and I had accepted that it was simply the flat where I lived and where you grew up and that was enough." She looked at him. "And now you’re sitting at my kitchen table at nineteen years old telling me you want to buy me a house."

"A flat," he said.

"A flat," she repeated, and the corner of her mouth moved. "The point stands."

"Is that a yes?" he said.

She laughed, which was not the response he’d expected, and it was the short genuine kind that arrived when something caught her off guard. "I don’t know what it is yet," she said. "Give me a moment."

"Take your time," he said, and went back to eating.

She watched him eat for a few seconds and then picked up her own fork. "What neighbourhood?"

"That’s what Wednesday is for," he said. "Marco’s arranged three viewings. You’re coming."

"You already arranged viewings?"

"Yes."

"Before asking me?"

"I knew what you’d say if I asked first," he said.

She made the exasperated sound through her nose that meant he was correct and she wasn’t going to concede it directly, and they ate in silence for a moment while the kitchen held the warmth of the hob and the sounds from the street below came in through the window she always left open in summer.

"What kind of flat?" she said eventually.

"Something you actually want to live in," he said. "Not flashy. Residential area. Kitchen with a proper window."

She looked at him. "You know me well."

"I grew up in a flat with a kitchen with a proper window," he said. "I know what you like."

She smiled at that, and it was the unguarded kind that she didn’t always let arrive so quickly, and she refilled his glass without asking and then her own, and the conversation moved on to the viewings on Wednesday and what questions she should ask and whether the agent Marco had found was trustworthy, which became a broader discussion about property agents in Florence in general that lasted until the pasta was finished and she got up to cut the bread.

"I’m proud of you," she said while her back was to him at the counter. "Not for the money. For thinking about this properly."

"Marco helped," he said.

"Marco told you what to do with numbers," she said, and she turned around and set the bread on the table. "Wanting to do this in the first place — that’s yours."

He didn’t answer that because there wasn’t anything useful to add to it, and she sat back down and broke off a piece of bread and the evening continued the way evenings in his mother’s kitchen always had, which was without ceremony and with enough food.