The Almighty Dominance (by Sunshine) novel Chapter 406

Ten minutes slid past.

The street stayed empty except for the twenty men huddled by the curb, eyes fixed on the dark mouth of the road as if a friend might step out of the shadows.

Alex walked up to them with the calm of someone already decided.

“Ten minutes,” he said. “No friends showed. Like I promised — every pinky gets broken. So bear the pain.”

“Don’t you dare!” Max bellowed, panic cutting through his bravado.

“We’ve called the Chicago Outfit — a thousand of our men are on their way. You’d better run while you can, or we’ll turn you into mince.”

“Really?” Alex stepped closer until Max could feel his breath. “I don’t see your thousand.”

Color drained from Max’s face. He tried to force menace into his voice. “You’ll regret this. You’ll regret everything.”

Alex didn’t warn. He grabbed Max’s other pinky and snapped it like a twig.

Max howled. The sound ripped into the night and seemed to pull the darkness apart.

Engines answered the cry: trucks, pickups, motorcycles roaring down the avenue, lights cutting through the fog.

Men poured out of beds and from behind doors, clutching iron pipes, nailed bats, chains — anything that could smash bone and split skin.

The number swelled fast — easily hundreds.

“Who the hell touched one of ours?” someone yelled. “Who wants to die tonight?”

Normal people fled. Couples, joggers, late commuters — they scattered like leaves.

The thugs surged into the road, swinging weapons in lazy, dangerous arcs.

Most were kids with too much venom and too little sense; manipulated, impatient, hungry for violence.

They’d grown up trusting numbers more than skill.

They’d never tasted defeat.

Park staff and security guards watched, faces gone ashen. These men were used to chasing drunks and scooping up pickpockets, not facing a street army.

“Everyone inside the park — now! Close the gates. Keep the children safe. Say nothing to anyone,” Alex ordered.

“Are you sure?” one of the guards stammered. “They’re too many.”

“Trust me,” Alex called over the growing din. “I’m more than enough. Move!”

The guards exchanged looks, then ran. The gate slammed shut, bolts clanking as they locked them from the inside.

Alex stood alone in the center of a hundred raised faces and crude weapons. They spat at him, lungs full of threat.

“You’re dead, asshole!” one screamed.

“You hear us? You’re begging for death!”

“Hurting the Chicago Outfit? You’ll pay!”

The mob tightened like a fist ready to close. Men lifted bats, chains glinted, and for a heartbeat the world held its breath.

Then twenty figures stepped from the darkness behind Alex, the sound of boots and quiet authority.

Carlos led them, his expression flat and businesslike.

“Sire, we’re here,” he said.

Alex didn’t look back. “New Kingswell recruits?”

“Like you ordered, sire. Just brought them from training.”

“Good,” Alex said. He turned his head just enough to let the word cut through.

“Each of you will face twenty. Win, and you’re Kingswell.”

Carlos turned to the group. “You heard the boss. Move.”

Twenty men and women — jeans, shirts crumpled like they’d just left a late party — fell in behind him.

They walked past Alex with the calm of people who’d been waiting for this exact moment.

No hesitation.

“You twenty wanna face hundreds?” Max roared, trying to reclaim the night. “Show no mercy. Kill them — show what the Chicago Outfit does to rats.”

The Kingswell didn’t answer.

They spread out, eyes flat, then exploded forward as one.

They ran like moths to a flame — not blind, but hungry.

At first, the thugs also surged forward like they owned the night.

They came with cocky grins, swinging bats and chains like trophies, shouting over one another with curses and promises of blood.

The road shook with their confidence, the kind born from always being the predators — from always having the numbers, from never once being challenged.

But the Kingswell moved faster.

Where a thug’s swing was wild, clumsy, and loud, a Kingswell’s strike was sharp, quiet, and final.

An elbow crushed a windpipe, a knee shattered a ribcage, a knife slid between bone and muscle with surgical precision.

The first few thugs went down screaming, clutching broken jaws and twisted limbs.

Their friends laughed at them — at first.

They thought it was luck, a mistake, that their buddies had just been sloppy.

But when the next wave charged, they too dropped, gasping for breath with bones bent at unnatural angles.

The swagger began to crack. The laughter turned brittle.

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