The Almighty Dominance (by Sunshine) novel Chapter 432

Charles Kingston slammed into Mike’s office, shoulder first, blowing past the secretary’s outstretched arm and the thin line of authority she tried to hold.

His breath came in short bursts, his face flushed with adrenaline.

“Mike!” he barked, voice shaking with excitement. “I killed Alex. I killed Gilbert Guise’s murderer!”

The secretary’s composure cracked for only a second. She lowered her head, her tone crisp and respectful. “Sir, I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen.”

Mike, seated behind his wide oak desk, didn’t raise his voice.

He paused his phone call with a simple, controlled motion, thumb pressing gently on the receiver.

“Hold on,” he said into the receiver. Then, turning to Debora with that smug little half-grin, he added, “It’s fine, Debora. It’s Charles Kingston — the legend himself. Rules don’t apply to him, remember?”

Then his attention shifted fully to Charles, his tone smooth, precise, professional.

“Charles,” he said evenly, “I’m still on a call. Please give me a moment. Take a seat on the sofa. If you’d like something to drink, just ask Debora.”

Charles dropped onto the worn couch and felt something hot and dizzy behind his ribs — excitement and the sick relief of a man whose last lifeline had snapped back into place.

Since the Los Angeles mess his accounts had been frozen.

But with Gilbert Guise’s will — with the money he could inherit now — he saw himself climbing straight past debt into power.

Governor of Paris, he thought. Everything. He would own the city and everything in it.

Charles didn’t notice Mike’s fingers trembling as he jabbed out a quick message:

“Charles Kingston is here — securing the Guise will.”

Mike slid the phone back into his pocket, forced a calm smile, and acted as if nothing had happened.

He returned to his desk, folding his hands on the blotter. “So. You killed Alexander Leonhart?”

“Yes,” Charles said, almost laughing. The laugh came out thin. “Yes, I did.”

“Do you have proof?”

Charles bristled. “I killed him. What proof do you need?”

Mike didn’t hurry. He leaned forward, “His body. A photo. A video. Anything that ties this to you.”

Charles’ grin thinned. He’d been so caught up in the rush he hadn’t thought past the deed.

“I stabbed him — right in the chest, the heart. Blood poured out. He’s dead, Mike. There’s no coming back from that.”

“Still,” Mike said, “I can’t release the will without proof.”

“You have to!” Charles slammed his fist on the table. The flat thud echoed in the small room. “I killed him. What else do you want from me?”

Mike watched him; he watched the hunger, the way ambition had warped Charles’ face into something sharper, crazier.

“Okay,” he said finally. “When did you do it?”

“Vancouver slums,” Charles said. “Near the new orphanage they just finished.”

Mike grabbed the receiver and barked, “Debora — pull anything on that orphanage in the Vancouver slum. Reports, emergency calls, suspicious deaths, anything. Now.”

“Yes, sir. Give me a few minutes,” came the brisk reply over the phone.

Mike pushed a cup of tea across to Charles. It steamed in the low light.

“Drink,” he said. “Relax. If you actually killed him, and we can prove it, Gilbert Guise’s money becomes yours.”

Charles took the cup with a hand that trembled — not from cold but from an adrenaline that tasted like victory and fear at once.

A link pinged on Mike’s phone. He tapped it and the feed pushed to the wall screen.

Tens, then hundreds of billions stared back at him.

He grinned until his face hurt, snapped the suitcase shut, and shoved it under his arm.

“Thanks, Mike,” he said, voice syrup-smooth. “I won’t forget this.”

He barreled for the door and slammed it behind him, not hearing Mike’s soft, almost pleading call—“Please… just forget me.”

Outside, the city air tasted like possibility.

Charles walked like a man who owned a continent. “Billions,” he breathed. “Governor of Paris. Maybe a king.” He laughed at the thought, high and sharp.

Two hulking men suddenly stepped out of the shadows without a sound.

They wrapped heavy hands around his arms and squeezed.

Charles spun, reached for outrage, but their grip was iron. A boxy van rolled up. The men shoved him inside like luggage and slammed the door.

The van lurched away.

“What the hell are you doing?” Charles barked, pounding the metal. “Do you know who you’re messing with? I’m Charles Kingston, the governor of Paris!”

Silence answered him, thick and controlled. Then the screen in the van lit, and Bella’s face filled it—pale, furious, eyes burning red.

“Charles Kingston,” she said. “I held myself together after you killed my father. I kept calm. But you killed Alex my love. How dare you kill him.”

Charles barked a laugh—hollow, furious. “Bella—this is your game? Don’t you know who I am? I run Paris. Don’t you dare touch me.”

Bella’s expression hardened. “Your title doesn’t change what you are. You murdered my father, the governor of Vermont. You murdered my love. Why shouldn’t I kill you?”

“Take his eyeballs. Cut out his tongue. Take his hands.” Each command fell like a verdict.