Chapter Text
The ball slapped hard against the concrete, echoing off the walls of the
quadra. Neymar darted after it barefoot, toes already sore from skidding across the rough surface, but he didn’t care. His body felt light when he played like this, free in a way nothing else in his life gave him. He flicked the ball between his friends, braces flashing in a grin as he pulled a slick trick that made them groan. He loved the noise, the challenge, the sweat pouring down his chest in sticky rivulets.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught João pulling out his phone to film. Neymar glanced at it, the latest model, with a crystal-clear screen. He knew exactly how much that thing cost. Too much. His stomach twisted, sharp and fleeting, the same way it always did when he thought about all the things he’d never have. His own phone was ancient; the screen was cracked into a spiderweb, and the battery died if he looked at it the wrong way. Even so, he still hid from his overbearing dad, who'd long banned him from owning a phone.
Still, he didn’t say anything. He’d rather be barefoot with a ball than stuck without one, like so many other kids. He lifted his chin and played harder, even as his gaze slid again to João’s shoes, crisp white Nikes that hadn’t even been creased yet. Neymar glanced down at his own feet, callused and dirty. He felt the sting of it for just a second before shaking it off, laughter bubbling up as he nutmegged his friend.
That was when the gate shrieked open.
The sound cut sharply over the rhythm of their game, and every head turned. Neymar slowed his dribble, sweat dripping into his eyes as he squinted against the afternoon sun. At first, he thought it was some cranky neighbour who’d come to kick them out, or maybe one of those older guys who swaggered in sometimes to show off.
But it wasn’t.
It was a man. Not a dad, not a boy, but someone in between — maybe mid-twenties. His cheekbones were sharp enough to slice with, tattoos winding down his arm like inked armour, and his jewellery flashed with every subtle movement. Thick chains. Rings that looked heavy and expensive. The kind of watch Neymar had only ever seen behind glass.
The first thing Neymar thought wasn’t anything deep. Just—damn. He looks rich.
And not fake-rich, like some of the older kids who flexed knock-offs at school. This was the real thing. His sneakers were spotless, untouched by dust or concrete, and Neymar knew they cost more than his family’s monthly rent. He had that effortless stance too; back straight, chin tilted just enough to make the whole court feel like it belonged to him now.
There were others with him, loud and cocky, but Neymar barely registered them. The man didn’t even need to raise his voice. The way he stood was loud enough.
Neymar felt the ball roll against his ankle, forgotten. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, sweat streaking down his cheek, his braces flashing as he grinned at his friends like nothing had shifted. But inside, something felt… knocked loose. He couldn’t stop his eyes from dragging back to the stranger, to the tattoos, the shine of the jewellery, the absolute untouchability of it all.
He wondered, briefly, what his dad would say if he caught him staring like that. His dad, who still refused to buy him a phone, who wanted to keep him “safe” from the world, who’d talked about marrying him off like Neymar was some fragile little thing that needed guarding.
And yet here was this man, standing like a king in Neymar’s world of chipped concrete and torn nets.
Cool. Dangerous maybe. But cool in a way Neymar knew he’d never pull off. He stared a beat longer, hoping the man wouldn’t notice his gaze. But he did, his dark eyes locking onto Neymar’s curious hazel gaze.
When Richard’s eyes met Neymar's, he was struck by the steadiness of his gaze. It wasn’t shyness, or fear—it was a clear, direct brightness, as if he had no reason to think the world could hurt him. That smile lingered, innocent and guileless, teeth flashing, and Richard felt something curl deep in his chest. The boy was light, sunlight made flesh, and Richard, who had lived long in the shadows, found himself pierced by it.
For one suspended moment, the sound of the game fell away. Richard didn’t see the concrete, or the peeling paint on the court walls, or even the men at his back. He saw only the boy—barefoot, bright-eyed, smiling as though he’d never yet learned the weight of fear.
And Richard thought: mine.
When Richard’s eyes met Neymar’s, it was like a jolt of static up his spine. He hadn’t expected it—he hadn’t even come here looking for anything but to show face, maybe kick a ball around a bit, and enjoy Sao Paulo’s ambience before his return to Rio. But then the kid looked at him, not flinching, not darting his eyes away like most people did when confronted with his shadow. No, this boy—barefoot, sweat-slick, braces flashing—looked straight through the noise and into him.
Richard stilled.
He wasn’t used to light. He’d lived too long with guns in the dark, with whispered deals, with blood on his hands that never fully washed away. He was made of control and violence, sharp edges and cold nights. And yet, here was this boy, smiling at him like the world was simple, like nothing bad could ever reach him.
Richard’s chest tightened. It was unbearable, the purity of it.
He saw the way the boy’s friends laughed around him, how he shone at the centre of it all, moving like football was carved into his bones. Barefoot on hard concrete, and still better than the rest. A natural. A star without polish.
Too good for this place. Too good to stay here.
Richard’s jaw clenched as the thought bloomed, unstoppable: I want him.
Not just want—need.
The boy’s brightness was dangerous, a beacon in a world that thrived on shadows. If Richard didn’t take him, someone else would. He knew how the streets devoured boys like that, chewed them up and spat them out. He wouldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t.
Mine.
The word lodged in his brain, pulsing with the steadiness of a heartbeat.
He imagined that smile turned soft, directed at him alone. He imagined those bright eyes lowering when Richard told him to. He imagined the boy at his side, dressed in things he’d buy him, dripping with the wealth Richard had killed for. He’d polish him, protect him, cage him if he had to.
The hunger was instant, brutal. It wasn’t lust—at least, not only lust. It was something worse. Possession. Obsession. A need to own.
He tilted his head, the faintest smile curling his mouth as he kept watching. The kid didn’t even realise what had just happened—that in the space of a heartbeat, Richard had already decided.
He would have him.
He stared longer, drinking in the sight of the boy, carefree and wild as he played. His eyes flashed with mirth, his smiles easy and disarming.
The boy who didn’t even know he’d been chosen. Neymar’s laughter still rang across the court, still bright, but Richard only heard the sound of opportunity. He gestured to one of his men, and he leaned in as if by instinct.
“Find out who he is,” Richard murmured, low enough that only his circle would hear. “Everything. Family, school, where he sleeps at night.”
The man nodded and slipped back towards the SUV, phone already out. Richard didn’t look away from Neymar. He couldn’t.
The ball had rolled to the edge of the court, caught against the cracked cement lip, and Neymar jogged to fetch it. When he straightened, Richard crooked two fingers, a gesture that held the weight of command. Neymar hesitated for the briefest beat—then, curious, he padded over barefoot, the ball tucked against his hip.
“Oi,” Neymar said, half-grin, half-question.
Up close, he was even smaller, lean but wiry, muscles drawn fine from endless play. The braces on his teeth caught the sun when he smiled. He smelled of sweat and concrete dust, and Richard found the rawness intoxicating.
“What’s your name?” Richard asked, voice smooth but carrying steel beneath it.
“Neymar,” the boy answered easily, like he wasn’t speaking to a stranger in gold chains flanked by armed men.
Richard’s mouth curved. “Neymar,” he repeated slowly, tasting it. He let the pause stretch, eyes sweeping him with proprietary weight. “Good. I'm Richard. I like to know the names of people who catch my attention.”
The boy’s brow furrowed slightly, uncertain if it was a compliment or a threat, but he didn’t look away. And Richard thought again, darkly, dangerously: mine.
Richard let the boy’s name settle in the air, his smile never slipping. He didn’t push further, not yet. Instead, he let silence do the work, watched how Neymar shifted under it. Most kids would’ve ducked their heads, fidgeted, looked for an escape. But this one just grinned, cocky, shifting the ball from hand to hand like he’d been born with it.
“School’s out for you, isn’t it?” Richard asked casually, eyes narrowing just slightly.
“Yeah,” Neymar said, rolling the ball down his arm in a practised trick before catching it against his thigh. “Vacation now. No classes ‘til February.”
Richard hummed, pretending it was small talk, though it was anything but. He studied how quickly the boy offered details, how unguarded he was. “So, plenty of free time.”
Neymar nodded. “Just football, every day.” He laughed, light, careless.
Richard tilted his head, feigning interest. “Show me.”
The boy blinked, then grinned wider, eager to oblige. He dropped the ball, flicked it up with his toes, and began a series of tricks—the ball balanced on the back of his neck, rolled down to his foot, then flicked high into the air to catch on his thigh. His friends shouted encouragement, but Richard only watched the boy himself—his comfort in the spotlight, his need to impress, the way approval mattered to him like oxygen.
When Neymar stopped, flushed with pride, Richard clapped once, slow and deliberate. “Not bad,” he said, tone cool, withholding enough to make the compliment feel earned. He saw how Neymar’s smile flickered, just for a second, before brightening again. Hungry for more.
Richard leaned down slightly, bringing his voice just close enough to make the words feel intimate. “Keep working like that, garoto, and you won’t be stuck on these cracked courts forever. You’ve got potential—I can show you a little of what that looks like tomorrow, if you want.”
Neymar tilted his head, uncertain if it was a promise, a tease, or something in between. The flicker of curiosity in his eyes made Richard’s chest tighten. That hesitation, that spark of interest… it was exactly what he wanted.
Richard’s words hung in the air, smooth and heavy. Neymar bounced the ball against his thigh, lips tugging into a grin he couldn’t quite hide.
“Tomorrow?” he echoed, like he was testing the idea out loud.
Richard’s eyes narrowed just slightly, weighing him, then dipped in a slow nod. “Tomorrow. I’ll send someone for you.”
Neymar hesitated—not out of suspicion, but out of the nervous thrill of it. He’d grown up hearing his father warn him about men like this, about danger lurking outside their cramped apartment. But nothing about Richard felt like danger to him. Not when he stood there, draped in wealth Neymar had only ever glimpsed through shop windows. Not when his voice carried the ease of someone who could decide things and make them happen.
And Neymar was curious. Painfully, recklessly curious. He wanted to know what it felt like to stand beside someone like that, to see the world from the other side of the glass.
“Tá bom,” Neymar said at last, shrugging as if it were nothing, though his pulse raced. “I’ll come.”
Richard’s mouth curved, satisfied. He didn’t push further, didn’t need to. The boy’s agreement was enough. He’d stepped willingly into the current now, and Richard knew exactly where it would carry him.
He straightened slowly, letting his men fall back a step as he strolled toward the gate. But he didn’t hurry; he had all the time in the world this month, and Neymar would meet him tomorrow. He knew the boy was still watching, still caught in the pull of something bigger than himself.
The name, the address, the family details—he’d gather them all. Neymar was bright, unguarded, too ready to believe someone like Richard could open doors.
And Richard would.
Just not the kind Neymar thought.
As he turned toward the gate, Neymar’s friends crowded him with questions, but he waved them off with a laugh, pretending it was no big deal. Still, his eyes drifted back to the man in the gold chains, the way he moved like the whole city bent for him.
That night, Neymar lay restless on the thin mattress in his small bedroom, the only one he got to himself since his younger sister had been moved to her own room down the hall. The fan beside him rattled uselessly against the thick summer heat, rattling in the frame like it couldn’t quite keep up with the stifling air. Sweat clung to his skin, and he shifted under the threadbare sheet, listening to the distant sounds of the favela: a television flickering in another apartment, dogs barking, and the occasional shout of someone returning late.
His body still buzzed from the day, every muscle humming from running, kicking, twisting. But it wasn’t football that kept him awake.
It was Richard.
The man’s presence replayed in Neymar’s mind with a clarity that made his chest tighten. The way his dark eyes had locked onto him, the calm precision of his movements, the subtle glint of gold against skin tanned and taut with confidence. He remembered how effortlessly Richard had stood above everyone else, commanding attention without raising his voice, as if the world itself had bent to him.
And then there was the way he spoke. Neymar had noticed it today, during the brief exchange on the court. There was something in the cadence, the twist of vowels—he didn’t sound Brazilian. Where was he from? Neymar didn’t know, and it didn’t matter that he couldn’t place it exactly. But it made him feel… curious, intrigued. Different. Dangerous in a way that made his stomach flutter.
He turned onto his side, curling into the thin sheet, and stared at the cracked ceiling. What could someone like Richard want with him? Not the usual adults from school or the neighbourhood—those who saw him as just another favela kid to watch or scold. Richard was different. He was deliberate. He had chosen him.
He wasn’t stupid. Neymar knew that rich men didn’t notice kids like him for no reason. And yet… he didn’t feel scared. Not really. He felt a thrill, sharp and dizzying, that made his heart hammer in his chest. Excitement, yes—but also something heavier, something like being pulled toward something he didn’t yet understand. Chosen.
He rolled onto his back, letting his arms stretch over his head. Shadows moved across the walls as the fan spun lazily, and for a moment, he let himself imagine what it might feel like to be seen the way Richard had seen him—bright, unguarded, untouchable in his own small world of concrete and dust.
Maybe Richard saw the same thing Neymar sometimes felt when he played barefoot on cracked concrete, dodging friends and neighbours and the rough edges of life—that he was meant for something bigger, something beyond the narrow, sun-baked streets of his favela.
He shifted again, this time toward the open window, letting the warm night air drift across his skin. By morning, he’d convinced himself that whatever Richard wanted couldn’t be bad. Maybe it was an opportunity—something new, something exciting. Something that could pull him out of the same patterns he’d been living in his whole life.
And still, beneath that excitement, a flicker of unease gnawed at him—but it was tiny, almost laughable compared to the pull of curiosity. He closed his eyes, the shadows dancing behind his eyelids, and let himself imagine what tomorrow might bring, the sound of Richard’s voice, rich and strange in a way he couldn’t name, echoing in his mind.
Neymar woke up earlier than usual, the morning light spilling through the gaps in the curtain. His sister was already banging around in the kitchen, but he barely heard her; his head was too full of Richard.
All night, he’d turned the man over in his mind—the gleam of his chains, the weight of his voice, that strange accent that wasn’t quite Brazilian. He didn’t know where it was from, only that it made Richard sound like he belonged to another world entirely. Neymar felt jittery just thinking about it, like he’d been picked for something he didn’t understand yet.
He rolled out of bed and went straight to his drawer, pulling out his best T-shirt. It was plain white, the cotton thin and worn, but it didn’t have holes. He shook it out, smoothed the creases as best he could, and set it aside. Then his shorts—the denim pair he hardly wore because they felt too tight after so many washes. They’d have to do.
He scrubbed himself in the shower until his skin turned pink, even though the water ran cold. His sandals got a good rinse too, soles slapped against the tile as he rubbed them down with an old rag until they looked almost new. He even trimmed his nails, staring contemplatively at them when he was done.
In the cracked mirror above the sink, he practised his smile. Not too wide, not too nervous. Just… confident. Grown-up, maybe. He wanted Richard to look at him again the way he had on the court—like he was something worth noticing.
He wondered what Richard had in store. If his father were there, he'd have forbidden him from going and smacked him for asking. But he wasn't there. He'd left for work early that morning, his mother following not long after. The only people home were he and his sister, and her silence could easily be bought.
By noon, he’d cleaned his room, made his bed, brushed his teeth twice, and still couldn’t sit still. Every sound outside sent him rushing to the window, half-expecting the black SUV to already be waiting.
When the time finally came, marked by a tattooed man calling for him, Neymar tugged on the white shirt, smoothed it down over his chest, and grabbed his sandals, heart pounding. He gave himself one last look in the mirror. His braces flashed when he smiled, but he didn’t mind. He wanted Richard to see him like this—bright, ready, chosen.
As he headed for the door, his sister poked her head out of her room, squinting at him. “Where are you going dressed like that? And who was that man asking for you?”
Neymar froze, pulse quickening. He didn’t want her running to tell their dad. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a couple of reais—money he’d been saving—and pressed it into her hand. “Buy yourself something sweet, okay? Just… don’t say anything.”
Her eyes lit up at the coins, suspicion dissolving into a grin. She tucked the money into her pocket with a conspiratorial nod, though she gave him one last look like she was filing the mystery away for later.
Relief washed through him. Neymar slipped outside, clutching his old cracked phone even though he wasn’t supposed to have it, and walked with his chin up, as if the whole favela might notice he was on his way somewhere important. He followed the man to the main street, his heart pounding with anticipation all the while.
The sun burned white overhead as Neymar stepped out, squinting until his eyes landed on the SUV waiting by the corner. It looked ridiculous against the backdrop of patched brick and laundry lines—a glossy, black Range Rover that seemed almost too heavy for the narrow street.
The man leaned against the hood, sunglasses perched low on his nose, jewellery catching the light like it had been placed there just to blind the whole favela. He didn’t wave, didn’t beckon—just watched as Neymar approached, sandals slapping the pavement.
For a heartbeat, Neymar wondered if he should turn back. But then Richard opened the door with a casual flick of his hand, and Neymar’s feet carried him forward before he could change his mind.
Inside, the air was cool and scented faintly of leather and something sharper—cologne that clung to the seats. Neymar ran a hand over the stitching, unable to hide the awe on his face.
Richard reached into the back and pulled out a crisp white ball, its blue star panels gleaming under the tinted light. Neymar’s breath caught. The Champions League logo was embossed on it, real, official—something he’d only ever seen on TV.
“For you,” Richard said smoothly, setting it on Neymar’s lap. “I thought you might like it.”
Neymar stared, fingers trembling as he traced the stars. “This is… It’s real?” His voice cracked, too high.
Richard’s mouth curved faintly. “Of course it’s real. I don’t deal in fakes.”
Neymar’s chest swelled, a laugh bubbling out before he could stop it. He hugged the ball close, the way he used to hug the cheap plastic ones his dad bought at the market. He felt stupid, childish, but couldn’t help it.
“Thank you,” he breathed.
Richard tilted his head, watching him soak it in, and then leaned closer. “One thing, garoto. A kiss, here.” He tapped his cheek, casual, like it was nothing.
Heat flared in Neymar’s face. He hesitated, glancing at the silent driver in the front seat, then back at Richard. But the man was looking at him expectantly, not unkindly, as if the request were perfectly ordinary.
So Neymar leaned in, quick, brushing his lips to the man’s cheek. His heart thundered the whole time.
Richard’s smile widened—small, satisfied. He tapped the dashboard, and the SUV purred to life.
They pulled away from the favela, the ball resting proudly in Neymar’s lap, and drove aimlessly through streets Neymar had never seen from behind tinted glass. Richard asked him questions—about football, about school, about what he wanted when he grew up—and Neymar answered, nervous at first, then freer, distracted by the weight of the ball and the strange newness of the ride.
Richard didn’t take him home after the drive. Instead, the SUV glided into a quieter street lined with polished storefronts and shaded awnings, nothing like the bustle of the favela or the noise of the quadra. Neymar pressed his forehead to the glass, wide-eyed, until the car rolled to a stop in front of a restaurant with white tablecloths visible through the windows.
Richard cut the engine. “Come,” he said simply, already stepping out.
Neymar followed, hugging the ball to his chest as if afraid someone might snatch it from him. The soles of his sandals slapped against the clean pavement, each step echoing how out of place he felt. He’d washed his shorts the night before, laid out his best T-shirt—the one without holes—and scrubbed his feet until the skin went pink. But under the polished gaze of the waiters, his efforts felt small. His clothes hung wrong, too plain, too thin, compared to the pressed shirts and dresses of the other diners.
Inside, the restaurant was cool,bright with afternoon sun, with the faint clink of glass and silver echoing across the room. A waiter led them to a table by the window, and Neymar sat stiffly, afraid to scuff the chair with his sandals. His hands twisted in his lap, still faintly damp from clutching the ball, and he tried not to look at how Richard’s rings caught the low light, how his watch gleamed like it belonged here as much as the linen and polished cutlery did.
When the menu came, Neymar only stared at it, the foreign words blurring together. His mouth went dry. He didn’t even know how to pronounce half of it.
Richard’s voice broke through the silence, smooth and easy. “What do you want, nene?”
Neymar shifted, heat rising to his cheeks. “I don’t know…”
Richard leaned back, watching him struggle. There was no impatience in his expression, just that same unreadable curiosity. Finally, he closed the menu with a snap and handed both back to the waiter. “Bring us the burrata with heirloom tomatoes to share. We’ll have medium-rare steak for our mains. Two plates. Tiramisu for dessert.” He paused, seemingly contemplating what drinks to get. “Bring me a Barolo and a San Pellegrino aranciata for the boy here.”
Relief flooded Neymar, though it tangled with something sharper—shame, maybe. He hated that he couldn’t even order for himself, hated the way his sandals squeaked when he shifted in his seat, hated how obvious it must be that he didn’t belong.
And yet, when the food came—perfectly seared, steaming, rich with flavour—Neymar couldn’t help but eat hungrily, almost forgetting himself in the taste. He caught Richard’s eyes on him, calm, assessing, and felt that flush of heat again, the same dizzy thrill as when he’d pressed his lips to the man’s cheek. He flushed as he struggled with the knife and fork, his hands awkward and unfamiliar. He almost sank into the floor when he smeared his cheek with steak sauce. Richard’s smile was warm as he wiped Neymar’s face, his usually intense face tender with affection.
Richard poured them both water from the carafe, his movements deliberate, refined, as if teaching Neymar by example. “You cleaned up for me,” he said casually, not looking up as he filled Neymar’s glass.
Neymar blinked, startled. “What?”
Richard smiled faintly. “Your clothes. You tried.”
Neymar’s ears burned, but a small, uncertain smile tugged at his lips. He nodded quickly, not trusting his voice.
Richard’s gaze softened for just a moment before he turned back to his plate. “Good boy,” he murmured again, and Neymar’s stomach fluttered for reasons that had nothing to do with the food.
Neymar ducked his head again, hiding how hot his face had gone, pretending to be busy with the last sip of water. He didn’t understand why those words—so simple, so casual—made something flutter in his chest.
Richard did. He let his gaze linger on the boy’s flushed cheeks, the curve of his mouth, the way he cradled the football close to his side like it was a treasure. The boy had no idea yet what he was being drawn into. Richard would take his time. Slowly, carefully. Step by step.
The Range Rover hummed smoothly as they slipped back onto the sun-baked streets, traffic parting politely in its wake. Neymar sat stiffly, clutching the Champions League ball on his lap, eyes wide as he scanned the cityscape passing by—the clean façades, the cafes with silver cutlery, cars that gleamed in ways his father’s old hatchback never would. His sandals slapped felt filthy against the controlled luxury of the interior, making him painfully aware of how out of place he felt.
Richard turned to face him, finally looking up from his phone, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “So, you play every day?”
“Yeah,” Neymar said quickly, bouncing the ball lightly against his thigh. “After school… with friends at the quadra.”
Richard let the words settle, then asked, casually, “And your shoes… what do you usually wear when you play?”
Neymar blinked. “Sandals… or whatever I can get. Not fancy. My feet get used to it. Mostly barefoot, to be honest.”
Richard’s smirk deepened. “Size?”
“Thirty-eight,” Neymar said automatically, feeling his cheeks heat.
Richard nodded, letting the question pass as if it were nothing. “Good. You need proper shoes, nene. Ones that won’t hurt your feet. And clothes that let you move freely.”
Neymar’s fingers tightened instinctively on the ball, excitement twisting with nerves. Proper shoes? Proper clothes? He had never had anything like that.
Richard steered the conversation casually, talking about school, friends, and the streets he played on. Neymar answered shyly, proud to be noticed. Every detail—the sizes he mentioned, the way he described his body in shirts and shorts—was quietly filed away in Richard’s mind, as effortless as breathing.
“Medium shirts?” Richard asked after a pause, tapping the steering wheel. “And your shorts?”
“Medium… I guess. Not tight, not too loose,” Neymar said, shrugging.
Richard’s gaze swept over the boy again—the lithe body, the long legs, the bright eyes alert behind the braces. Every small detail added up, every casual answer making it easier for Richard to plan his next gift, his next step.
“You have a good eye,” Richard said softly, nodding toward the ball in Neymar’s lap. “You’ll be even better when your feet don’t hurt, when your body moves freely.”
Neymar smiled shyly, holding the ball closer. He didn’t know what Richard meant exactly, but he trusted him, in a way he couldn’t explain.
By the time the city blurred past and the Range Rover neared the drop-off, Richard already knew: the perfect shoes, clothes that fit just right, and a boy who would start to believe he belonged somewhere bigger than cracked concrete and worn sandals.
They slowed to a stop at the familiar street corner near Neymar’s block. The sound of the fan in the favela apartments, the chatter of neighbours, and the clatter of children playing drifted up, grounding him back in his own world. He gripped the Champions League ball a little tighter as Richard cut the engine.
“Here,” Richard said, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a crisp stack of bills. He handed them to Neymar with the same calm authority he carried in every movement. “One hundred and fifty reais. For you—or… someone you care about.”
Neymar stared at the bills, the weight of them suddenly heavy in his hands. One hundred and fifty reais could buy dinner for him and Rafaella. Maybe even some treats. His stomach clenched, and for a moment, he felt the dizzying mix of excitement and disbelief that always came with Richard’s generosity.
He glanced up, hesitating. “Um… thank you.” His voice was barely more than a whisper. He leaned across the seat to press a kiss to Richard’s cheek, blushing as he pulled away.
Richard’s dark eyes held his for a moment, unreadable, then he gave a faint nod. “Good boy. Go take care of yourself—and them.”
Neymar’s chest swelled, his cheeks hot. Rafaella. He imagined her eyes widening at the sight of the money, her grin splitting her face in two, and he couldn’t help but smile too.
Clutching the bills carefully in one hand and the UCL ball in the other, Neymar hopped out of the car, sandals slapping softly against the asphalt. As he turned to walk away, Richard called out to him. “Ney!” He stepped outside the car for a moment and handed Neymar a phone, their hands brushing for a moment. “Give me your number, I want to see you again.” Neymar typed in his number with shaky hands, his own cracked phone suddenly heavier in his pocket. He handed it back to Richard, grinning when he smiled gently. “Goodbye, nene, I’ll text you.”
The Range Rover glided away, sleek and powerful, leaving him standing at the edge of the favela, caught between two worlds: the sun-baked streets he knew like the back of his hand, and the bright, dangerous, intoxicating one Richard had shown him.
He tightened his grip on the ball, stuffing the money safely into his pocket. Rafaella would eat well today. Maybe he’d even sneak in a small treat for himself. And as he started the short walk home, his mind couldn’t stop replaying Richard’s smile, the glint of gold on his fingers, and the strange warmth of being chosen.
Rafaella’s eyes went wide the moment he flashed the bills, her little gasp sharp with disbelief.
“Where’d you—” she started, but Neymar cut her off with a grin, bouncing the ball once against the wall.
“Doesn’t matter. Want to go out?”
That was all it took. Her face lit up, excitement drowning any curiosity she might’ve had. Soon they were walking hand in hand down the cracked streets, the promise of a meal out tugging them faster with each step.
It wasn’t anywhere fancy—just a churrascaria a few bus stops away—but for Rafaella, it might as well have been a palace. She beamed across the table at him as they shared skewers of juicy meat and greasy fries, their laughter echoing under the din of clinking cutlery and loud conversation. Neymar sat back, overfull for once, watching his sister lick salt from her fingers and eye the dessert case. He ordered her a small pudim, earning another wide-eyed grin that carved straight into his chest.
By the time they got home, bellies round and tired, the sun had dipped low, painting the favela in orange and pink. Their parents stumbled in later from work, exhausted and hungry, only to find the kids already washed up and yawning.
“You’re not eating?” his mother asked, frowning at the untouched pot of beans on the stove.
Rafaella shook her head quickly, cheeks still glowing. “We already had dinner.”
Neymar kept his eyes on the floor, praying desperately that his dad wouldn’t find the ball under his bed.
“Where?” his father pressed, suspicion flickering in his voice.
“Just out,” Neymar mumbled, his throat dry, the taste of Richard’s world still lingering on his tongue. Rafaella elbowed him under the table, grinning, and he forced himself to smile back.