The plane finally came to a slow stop on the runway of Hong Kong International Airport.
The previous stop was Sicily.
The Gambino family.
The Gambino family, one of New York's five major mafia families, also holds a prominent position in Italy.
There are over a hundred documented families, large and small, in Italy, with major families accounting for about one-third.
The families are connected through a committee.
The committee has immense power and can kill within any family's territory without notifying its members.
Above the committee, there is an 11-member organization called the "Committee of Eleven," which is above all families and is the highest authority of the mafia.
The Gambino family holds a seat on the Committee of Eleven and once held the highest position among the eleven—the Godfather.
The Gambino family's spokesperson on the High Table is its core member—Jamie Vatto Gravino.
Jamie is an old-school individual who strictly adheres to mafia precepts.
He does not accept any coercion that harms the family's reputation and interests.
Coercion?
Mike was speechless; couldn't they see how friendly and considerate his proposal was, just a billion U.S. dollars plus a bit extra in compensation?
Mike had no choice but to add 15 bullets to the loss list, then visited the Gambino family Godfather, Paul Gotti, that same night.
This Godfather, who had weathered many storms, maintained a calm expression and keen eyes.
He stated: Jamie, who had dedicated himself to the family until his death, would receive a dignified funeral.
The inheritance would be properly distributed.
The widow would receive thoughtful care, even her X-life would be taken care of.
Then, other members would be arranged as soon as possible to take over Jamie's position on the High Table, and he hoped to gain Mike's understanding with a vote of approval.
Mike, in turn, highly praised Paul as a wise elder, stating that under his leadership, the Gambino family would surely reach a new level, creating new glory and history.
Then he moved the gun from Paul's temple.
The atmosphere was friendly and enthusiastic.
Mike cordially said "Good night," then quietly came and quietly left, taking nothing with him.
In the darkness, Paul Gotti, who had dominated his life, smashed his favorite vase against the wall, startling the bodyguards.
"I'm fine." Paul Gotti suppressed his anger, his voice hoarse yet dignified and steady, no different from usual.
He motioned for the bodyguards not to come in.
It would be useless if they came in anyway.
These idiots didn't even notice their employer had been approached at his bedside.
Rely on them?
Paul got up, opened the wardrobe, and found a secret door leading to a hidden room.
He opened the safe, which, besides various fake passports, gold bars, bearer bonds, property ownership documents, etc., also contained an old-fashioned mobile phone.
This phone had two speed dials: the first, to call an emergency meeting of the Committee of Eleven; the second, to gain authorization to dispatch a special execution squad.
After thinking for a moment, Paul sighed, put the phone back, and locked the safe.
Suddenly.
Paul noticed a piece of paper on the adjacent table, which had appeared at some unknown time.
A cheap paper business card.
Paul's hands and feet turned cold.
Next stop—Hong Kong.
The flight attendant in first class had an excellent service attitude, softly asking Mike what he needed, and when she served the red wine, there was a note underneath with a hotel room number and phone number.
The embarrassing thing was that there were three such notes, and these first-class flight attendants were all carefully selected Latin American beauties, making it hard to choose, so Mike found it difficult to decide.
This truly was a happy problem.
How about, the four of them play Eighty Points?
As for air combat?
Forget it, it's not a private jet anyway.
As the plane was about to land, all kinds of colored thoughts disappeared, and Mike even felt a sense of "homesickness" when approaching his hometown.
Mike jumped off the last step of the gangway, spread his legs, raised both hands, and shouted, "I'm here!"
Most of the attracted gazes were kind, while a few people looked as if they were watching an idiot.
Mike didn't care.
His mood was complex.
At Terminal 1 of the airport, Mike wandered around while eating egg waffles.
Two black sedans with heavy lines were parked at the exit.
A handsome, sharp-looking middle-aged man with gunmetal gray stripes.
A refined, black-haired woman in a khaki trench coat.
A bald man with wandering eyes.
A delicate young man in a traditional Chinese white Tai Chi suit.
Logically, such a group of people should be very eye-catching, yet other passengers seemed to ignore them.
"It seems they are specifically waiting for me." Mike walked over.
He didn't know who they were.
Definitely not ordinary people.
The handsome middle-aged man didn't just stand there waiting; instead, he stepped forward to greet Mike with a smile, extending his hand and saying in English, "Hello, I am Zheng Xian of S.H.I.E.L.D., welcome to Hong Kong."
Mike's first impression of him was good.
In this era, China is a superpower capable of rivaling the U.S., having independently established S.H.I.E.L.D., possessing the hollow circular mobile aerial fortress—"The Ring"—and housing over 150,000 elites, including analysts, operators, maintenance technicians, and field Agents, equipped with sixteen aerial warships and a scientific department.
It currently has the superhero team—"Dynasty"—and the future "Fengshen."
As the saying goes, one does not hit a smiling person, so Mike extended his hand and said in Chinese, "Hello, I am Mike Tang. I'm here to do some business and travel at the same time."
Two strong hands clasped together.
This scene was captured by a S.H.I.E.L.D. spy and sent to Director "Black Egg." According to completely unproven reports, Director Fury bit a pink handkerchief and tore apart a straw man named "Zheng X."
Zheng Xian: "Is it not delightful to have friends come from afar… May I, Zheng, fulfill my duties as a host?"
"Isn't it 'Though friends come from afar, they must be punished'?" Mike joked, "Alright, it's better to obey than to be respectful."
"Haha, Mr. Tang is truly humorous." Zheng Xian laughed heartily, then introduced his three subordinates: Li Hongying, Sun Yisheng, and Shi Wenyan.
"Mr. Tang, what are your plans next?"
"I'll follow your lead."
Mike got into one of the cars, and Shi Wenyan, the young man in the Tai Chi suit, tore a yellow talisman from a railing.
Spiritual energy emanated from the talisman.
It wasn't a trick.
Noticing Mike's gaze, Zheng Xian candidly said, "This is a 'Bystanders Keep Out Talisman' from Penglai, used to avoid unnecessary crowds and attention—a minor skill."
Penglai?
Well, Kunlun exists, so what's so strange about Penglai?
Zheng Xian said, "Wenyan is a martial artist from Penglai."
"Oh." Mike glanced at Shi Wenyan.
This person seemed to have a faint hostility towards him.
Had he offended him?
Or was he naturally unable to stand others being handsomer than him?
"Stop the car!" Mike suddenly shouted.
The car pulled over to the side.
Mike got out of the car, and when he returned, he had a portion of spicy fish balls bought from a street stall in his hand.
"Sorry, sorry, I've wanted to eat this snack for a long time. Do you want some too?"
A few minutes later.
"Stop the car!"
By the time they arrived at The Peninsula Hotel, Mike had red bean put chai ko in his left hand, a pineapple bun in his right hand, and had also packed cart noodle soup, typhoon shelter roasted goose, fire duck wings, wonton noodles, Temple Street beef offal, and bridge-bottom fried spicy crab.
Zheng Xian: "…"