The Almighty Dominance novel Chapter 407

Alex stood over the shattered thugs, his eyes cold as stone.

Hundreds of men knelt on the street, some trembling, others slumped lifeless against the asphalt.

The air stank of blood, sweat, and fear.

They had tasted hell. And heaven—heaven never gave entry to thugs, extortionists, or parasites.

No visas for their kind.

“Carlos,” Alex said, his voice sharp as steel. “Wipe the Chicago Outfit out of Vancouver. After tonight, their name dies with them.”

“Yes, sir,” Carlos answered without hesitation.

“Make sure no one ever rises again to bully the weak. Let this be the last time—ever. The weak have bled enough, their tears have soaked this earth long enough.”

“Every cry, every wound, every shattered life is a stain on us all. We should tremble with shame before the Almighty, who placed strength and authority in our hands to protect His people—yet we failed them, leaving them to suffer in silence for far too long.”

“No more. Not tonight. It ends here.”

“Never again, sir,” Carlos answered, his voice steady, his eyes burning with resolve.

Thirty Kingswell men stepped from the shadows, silent and disciplined. They moved with the purpose of executioners.

Carlos turned to his men, voice carrying like steel. “Begin the execution.”

A Kingswell soldier stepped forward, papers in his hand.

His eyes scanned the crowd, cold and unflinching, until they locked on a thug with a lip ring and ink crawling up his neck.

He pointed. “That one.”

Two men surged forward, dragging the thug to the front by his arms. He fought against their grip, spitting on the ground.

“Get your filthy hands off me, you dogs!” he roared, thrashing against their grip.

“You think you can drag me like some rat? I’ll cut your throats the second I’m free! You hear me? You’re already dead men!”

The thug crowd shifted uneasily, eyes darting, but silence held.

Still, a ripple of defiance sparked among them. A few sneered, baring yellow teeth, lifting their chins as if to remind the world who they were.

They had lived too long without fear, feeding off the city like wolves.

To them, pain was for others, never for themselves.

Even now, with chains of dread coiling around their necks, some still clung to their arrogance—faces carved with the stubborn pride of men who thought they were untouchable.

“Pieter Sullivan,” the soldier said, voice ringing with authority.

“You murdered three homeless men, assaulted four women, shattered bones of shopkeepers, and led gang wars that tore families apart. You turned this city into a pit of fear.”

“So what?” Pieter sneered, chin high. “Lock me up if I did wrong. That’s the law.”

“The Chicago Outfit paid cops to keep you untouchable. Prison’s a joke when the police serve your wallet. But here’s the truth—unfortunately for you, we’re not the police.”

Steel flashed.

With a single brutal swing, Pieter’s right arm was severed.

His scream ripped through the night as he writhed on the ground.

Blood welled, but the Kingswell pressed his nerves, cutting the flow, forcing the pain to linger.

“You still owe us your left arm,” the soldier said coldly. “Go beg your brothers. If one of them gives their limb, we’ll let you walk.”

For the first time, Pieter understood terror.

He had been the predator, the man who made others crawl.

Tonight, he faced monsters far darker than himself.

His eyes wild, he stumbled to the kneeling mob—men he had once called brothers, men he had sworn to die beside.

“Brother!” he screamed, clutching one man’s shoulder. “You promised—life and death together. Help me! Lend me your arm!”

They knew, in their bones, what it felt like to be prey.

And it was unbearable. Their bodies trembled. Their courage bled out.

“Please!” Pieter sobbed, running from one thug to the next. “Somebody—anybody!”

A Kingswell voice cut through the night like a blade. “Pieter… when the homeless you butchered begged you for mercy—what did you do?”

“I… I—” His stammer died in his throat as steel carved through flesh.

His head toppled to the asphalt, blood jetting from the stump like a fountain.

The crowd broke. Some thugs screamed. Others vomited in the gutter.

Tears streamed down hardened faces as regret devoured them. Why had they ever joined the Outfit?

Why had they thought themselves invincible?

Another Kingswell with a ledger stepped forward.

His voice was cold, methodical. “James. Gabe. Fox…” Each name was a death sentence.

One by one, men were dragged forward.

One by one, limbs were taken, necks split, bodies collapsed in rivers of blood.

Hundreds of gangsters realized the truth too late: regret always comes after. Death always comes on time.

“Stop this madness!”

The shout boomed down the street. Sirens wailed. A flood of red and blue lights washed over the blood-soaked pavement.

Dozens of police cars screeched to a halt, doors flying open.

Armed officers spilled out, weapons raised. “This is the Vancouver Police Department!” a commander barked through a megaphone.

“Drop your weapons! You are committing criminal acts—killing and maiming people. Stop immediately!”