The next day, 8 p.m.
A small manor in the suburbs of New York—the meeting place of the Mafia Council.
Vito Corleone walked into the conference hall with Tessio. The other family heads and strategists stood up to greet him.
"Vito, business has been good recently, hasn't it?" someone asked with a smile.
"Yes, very good. The most scarce commodity on the market right now is probably alcohol," Vito replied.
The head of the Cuneo Family, seated nearby, laughed. "We all know you've made a fortune lately, Vito! Haha."
Several other families who had partnered with Vito chuckled in agreement.
"Hehe, it was simply a matter of timing and opportunity."
Tessio followed closely behind Vito, feeling honored.
These family heads showed even greater respect to Vito Corleone than before.
At the last council meeting, Vito had been just one of many Italian Mafia family heads. But now, he had quietly risen to become the de facto leader of them all.
Tessio understood the reason behind this shift: the power and influence gained from the alcohol trade.
Feeling the strength surging through him—and the hundred well-trained team members backing him—Tessio unconsciously straightened his back.
The Corleone Family's current dominance could be credited entirely to George Orwell.
Meanwhile, the newly established Jewish Gang leader, the Irish Family head, and the Black Gang leader all wore expressions of displeasure as they observed the unity among the Italian Mafia families.
Philip, head of the Irish Family and this session's rotating chairman, sat at the head of the table.
As the other family heads took their seats, the meeting began.
Philip scanned the group—over twenty family heads in total. His gaze lingered on one vacant seat as he began:
"You've all noticed that one of our council members is absent. And this marks the second time a member has been killed."
Everyone turned to the empty seat, then glanced at Saidi, the new Jewish Gang leader. It was clear that Philip was referring to both Basini of San Francisco and the former Jewish Gang leader. The reason for today's emergency council meeting was evident.
Philip's expression darkened. "Someone has killed two of our council members. I think we all know who it is—George Orwell, the man making waves lately."
"The Jewish Gang and the Basini Family were part of this council. When we founded the council, our charter clearly stated our duty to resolve internal disputes and form a mutual defense alliance. If any external force threatens our interests, we must unite to face the enemy."
"Now, with two-member families wiped out, I've called this meeting to discuss how we respond. My suggestion: we eliminate all BlackShield Security members and George Orwell involved in these incidents."
After finishing, Philip looked around the room.
Saidi, the new Jewish Gang leader, added firmly, "I support Philip's proposal. These attacks have seriously damaged the council's reputation and inflicted heavy losses on our gang. If the council means anything, we must go to war!"
The atmosphere turned heavy.
These family heads weren't fools. They were all aware of George and Black Shield Security's capabilities. They understood the real players behind these events. Was it truly that easy to strike back against George and his security company?
Leaving everything else aside, Black Shield Security's sheer strength was unmatched by any of their families. Sure, they were the Mafia—ambush tactics were their forte—but such tactics worked against individuals. George's team was a professional security force. Who would bear the cost of a failed retaliation?
Moreover, George wasn't just some flashy upstart. He was the youngest billionaire in America, a scientific genius, and a media sensation. To strike now would likely mean becoming pawns in someone else's game.
Silence fell. Many glanced discreetly at Vito Corleone.
Vito, calm and composed, looked at Philip and said, "Is the reason you've stated truly the only reason to retaliate against George and his company?"
Philip frowned. "Of course. Isn't that reason enough?"
"Certainly not. Let's not forget: the council's charter applies to underground organizations. George and his company are not a gang. And, as far as I know, they haven't claimed any territory. Reno, for instance—didn't Family Head Saidi eventually reclaim it?"
"More importantly, both the Jewish Gang and the Basini Family acted on personal vendettas. They provoked George Orwell first. The Basini Family wasn't eliminated until they were officially classified as bank robbers by the police."
The Hong Brotherhood boss across the table added, "That's true. According to our information, the Basini Family robbed a bank. Then the police intervened, cooperating with Black Shield Security to take them out."
The others nodded. Everyone knew it—crossing George at this point was a losing move.
Seeing the majority had made up their minds, Vito turned to Philip and Saidi, sneering.
"Besides, do you even understand who you're thinking of provoking? You're completely out of your depth."
Philip's expression darkened. "Vito, what do you mean by that?"
At that moment, a hand landed on Philip's shoulder.
A young voice spoke behind him, calm and cold:
"He means you're not even qualified to be my opponent."
Two minutes earlier...
Outside the manor, Black Shield Security team members had already taken position. Dressed in black combat gear and concealed by the night, they blended seamlessly into the surroundings.
With no need to consider civilian exposure, they operated at full capacity.
Picture fifty ninja-level operatives—each with combat training equivalent to a Genin—moving in from all directions to strike. The thugs outside the manor, completely unaware, were subdued before they could even react.
Some were knocked out before they even saw a shadow.
It was no contest. An ordinary person stood no chance against trained professionals. Their reaction speeds were worlds apart.
After the outer perimeter was secured, George entered the manor.
He gave the order: neutralize everyone inside except for Vito and Tessio—instantly.
George appeared behind Philip using the Body Flicker Technique.
The moment he spoke, the rest of the family heads and their escorts in the room noticed him. They instinctively reached for their hidden weapons—only to feel cold metal press against the backs of their heads.
They froze.
From the way others reacted, they could tell the objects behind their heads were all guns.
The conference room doors opened. Another team entered, efficiently confiscating all hidden weapons and stacking them on the table.
Only then did George signal his men to holster their pistols and fall back.
By now, everyone—except Philip—had seen who had just spoken.
It was the very man dominating headlines across the United States.
The man they had just been debating moments earlier.
George Orwell.
____________________________________________________________________________________________
Tactical Irregulars: Lecture 7 – Black Shield Engagement Profile
Fort Liberty, Tier-One Integration Wing
March 7, 202
Instructor: Clint Barton (S.H.I.E.L.D. Liaison)
Topic: Unconventional Engagement Profiles – Black Shield Doctrine
The cadets of Fort Liberty's Tier-One Integration Program sat in complete silence as Clint Barton stepped into the room. No fanfare. No ranks called. When the schedule read BlackShield Doctrine, no one needed reminding.
Barton dropped a thin manila folder onto the lectern. His tone was calm, but his eyes told the story better than the file ever could.
"Karachi, five years ago," he began. "Eight confirmed kills. No gunshots. No blunt trauma. All internal."
He opened the file and tapped the first photo with a gloved finger.
"Target: classified. Head of an international insurgent network. Red notices in India, Nigeria, Russia, and two stateside. Living deep in a walled compound in urban Karachi. Inside access only. Firearms were restricted to his guard. Everyone else? Nothing sharper than a compass needle."
He paused and looked up.
"That included one man — a Black Shield operative placed under deep cover six months prior. No weapons. No backup. No exit route."
Barton turned the page.
"On the night of the takedown, all eight men — the target included—were found dead in their compound offices. Each had a pencil driven clean through the cranial cavity. Not thrown. Placed. Jammed in so precisely that the wounds didn't bleed out."
A few brows furrowed.
"That's not the worst part," Barton said. "The operative duct-taped the entry points shut. Every one of them. Sealed the wound to prevent a mess. Covered the smell for longer than you might expect."
He closed the file.
"By the time the compound guards noticed the bodies, the operative was already out of the country. Two border crossings. No trace. No prints. No gear recovered, only some unconventional material used for killing the terrorist."
Sam Wilson, sitting front row, leaned forward slightly. "What were the materials?"
"House-issued stationery," Barton said. "Calculator. Notepad. A box of Number Twos, their biggest mistake, they let a BlackShield Ops walk in with stationary items, and it killed them."
No laughter. No comments. Just the hum of the wall vents.
Barton looked at them all. "He didn't improvise. He planned it. Waited. He knew everything about their routines, their rooms, and their ego. No panic. No struggle. Just… perfection."
A pause settled across the room, and Barton closed the file and spoke in his calm voice.
"That's the profile of a Black Shield field operative."
Barton's tone shifted — calm, but stripped of any warmth.
"Story time's over. Now we do serious work."
He turned toward the projection and clicked the remote. The photo vanished. A floor plan appeared, stark and clinical — the compound layout from Karachi.
"Open your reports. Section 6. Page forty-two."
The cadets finally opened their notebooks, pens poised.
"You'll break down behavioral movement, target prioritization, engagement sequence, and post-op concealment. Map the timing, and chart the options. Learn what it means to be three moves ahead before the first step."
He clicked again. Tactical overlays lit up the screen in blue arcs and red zones.
"You will be reverse-engineering this operation."
Sam Wilson flipped open his manual, scanning the printed preface as Barton began the technical breakdown.
The page heading read:
CASE FILE BRIEF – BLACK SHIELD ENGAGEMENT #7-991B
(Karachi Elimination – Urban Precision Cell Neutralization)
Classified Access – Authorized Study Only
Beneath it was the personnel index. Operators were involved in planning, surveillance, and post-op containment. Sam skimmed the list, eyes catching on one name printed near the bottom.
Name: Jonathan W.
Affiliation: Black Shield
Role: Senior Field Operative (Retired)
Current Status: Reserve Instructor (Active)
Sam stared at the line a moment longer.
No details. No biography. No photo.
Just a name.
He turned the page.
The lesson began.
________________________________________________________________________________________________
If any one of you want to read advance chapter with AI Machine Translation then the name is given in Review but just know that these side stories are my own written content so it is only available here on my webnovel page.
Also, I am taking a sick leave, I don't want to, but my fever is more than 100. So I will stay bedridden for a few days, it's possible, my throat is also not working fine, so unfortunately, there will be no updates for the next few days.