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“It seemed like a practical matter to me. And I know what a practical man you are.”

He wore a light gray suit that matched the color of his hair, a white shirt, and a blood-red tie. And a smug look on his face.

“Even my brothers tell me they don’t fully understand why you seem to want my football team as badly as you do,” I said. “They also don’t understand the methods you’ve used to try to get it.”

“Your brothers know as much about my business as they need to know,” Gallo said. “And considering how useless your brother Danny turned out to be, it’s probably for the best that he came running back to you like a little boy running to his mommy.”

I smiled.

“Considering what I know about Danny Wolf, I thought he exhibited surprisingly good taste in making this particular choice.”

I got up then and went to stand at the window and look down at the Wolves’ practice. Kept my back to him for over a minute before turning around.

“So whydoyou want my team so badly? The Denver Broncos were for sale last year, and you didn’t go anywhere near them.”

“The Wolves were supposed to be mine about ten years ago, but your father reneged on a deal we’d agreed to, one that I thought was overly generous at the time,” Gallo said. “The details of his screwing me over the way he did and acting as dishonorably as he did no longer matter. He’s gone now. And here the two of us are, and it’s time for me to put an offer on the table.”

“Whatareyou willing to offer?” I said.

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“Three billion dollars,” he said.

The Carolina Panthers, I knew, had been sold a few years ago for $2.3 billion. The Broncos had gone for $2.5 billion, the highest sale price in league history at that point. He was now willing to top that by half a billion dollars.

“That’s serious money.”

“When I want something, Ms. Wolf,” he said, “I’m not just willing to pay. I’m also willing to overpay. And frankly? I feel as if I have waited long enough to conclude business with your family that should have been concluded long ago.”

“No.”

Gallo looked confused, as if I’d suddenly spoken to him in French.

“No? Meaning no, you don’t think my business with your father should have been concluded years ago?”

From down below, I could hear the sound of a whistle being blown on the field.

“What I meant was no, I am not going to sell my team to you for three billion dollars.”

“Three point five,” he said, almost before the words were out of my mouth.

Gallo smiled then, looking almost happy even though I’d just turned him down again. He was on familiar ground here. He was John Gallo, the dealmaker. John Gallo the closer. Negotiating for something he really did want was probably like a narcotic with him.

“No.”

“I trust you’re quite clear on the fact that I am offering you a billion dollars more than anybody has ever offered for an NFL franchise,” he said.

“Crystal.”

“Four billion dollars.”

I shook my head. Gallo shifted slightly in his chair. He didn’t look rattled, shaken, uncertain, or even perturbed. Maybe he had convinced himself that he could simply roll me when the time came after throwing everything he had at me for months. In his mind, there would reach a tipping point where I would give up and walk away and he would get what he wanted.

“Why don’t we try this another way?” he said. “Why don’t you name a price?”

“There isn’t one. The Wolves aren’t for sale, at least not to you. Not for sale today. Not tomorrow. Not ever. Is that clear enough foryou,John?”