The Almighty Dominance novel Chapter 422

“Logan — your ego’s getting too big. How about we settle this tonight, at your place?” a rough voice called from one of the governors.

Logan swung his head toward the speaker. “You old fool. I thought you were long gone. Last I heard, you only had the courage to hit a young woman.”

“Man or woman — anyone with an ego that big needs a lesson,” Samuel said, laugh dry as old wood.

“Little Logan — we’ve tangled a hundred times. You’ve never beaten me. But that pride of yours… looks like it’s begging for a lesson.”

Logan’s face burned red, fury fighting to cover the crack of fear.

He carried the weight of a powerful army, his strength known across the states — yet Samuel was different.

Samuel was a legend, a man whose very name made soldiers uneasy. And deep down, Logan knew it.

Logan’s warning came out low and clipped. “Stay out of things that don’t concern you. You’re too old to start trouble.”

“Too old?” Samuel barked. “Old’s never stopped me. Trouble keeps me alive.”

“Jericho Kane was my oldest friend—now his daughter’s getting bullied by a coward like you, and you expect me to watch? I’d love to walk up and slap that arrogance right off your face.”

For a heartbeat, Logan’s eyes went cold enough to kill. He wanted to strike, to end the old man’s grin with his fist. He didn’t.

He swallowed the urge and spat venom instead. “You old man—your coffin’s practically parked outside. Mind your mouth.”

Samuel smirked, amusement flickering in his eyes. “My mouth’s mine. If yours needs a few knocks, I’ll gladly oblige.” He turned to the governors gathered nearby. “So—what do you make of Bella’s video?”

Governor José of Colombia unmuted his mic, his voice steady but sharp. “Bella’s footage makes it clear—Kingston is butchering his own people and feeding the riots.”

“The unrest is out of control. He came to us begging for help to put out the fire he lit, and now the blaze is devouring his whole state.”

“I agree,” Sophia said firmly. “As Governor of Paris, I won’t stand by while Alfred accuses the king of harming his own citizens. There’s no record—no precedent—of such brutality from a ruler here.”

“In Paris, it’s the Guise family exploiting and enslaving the people. And that, we cannot ignore.”

Lyra leaned in, eyes sharp. “I believe what happened in Vancouver was Kingwell striking the Chicago Outfit — the criminals who crawled out of my state. And here’s the funny part: that Outfit’s been laundering money through Los Angeles.”

“Alfred Kingston, your fortune exploded this year. Tell me—did you cut a deal with them for cash?”

A few governors glanced at one another. Doubt had a way of spreading in a room full of power.

Samuel, Logan’s old nemesis, watched with the calm patience of a predator. Around him, Logan’s supporters sat powerless, their teeth pulled in this fight.

“What bullshit are you peddling?” Alfred snapped, face hard as flint. “I’m innocent.”

“Sure, sure,” Bella said, laughter like a knife. “You don’t even have the guts to admit you poisoned my father.”

Alfred’s hand curled into a fist. “What kind of nonsense is that?”

Bella said nothing more. She hit play.

The banquet footage filled the screen: Jericho Kane, smiling as he was sworn in as governor. A woman passed by, touched his arm — a light, casual contact — and moments later Jericho’s face slackened.

He stumbled, then dropped to his knees, breath collapsing out of him like a snuffed candle.

The camera zoomed on the woman’s face until it swallowed the frame. Everyone could see her clearly now.

Kelly Kingston.

“I heard you sent Kelly with a rare poison — one only Kingwell had access to — to kill my father,” Bella said, voice flat. “You think that’s a coincidence?”

Alfred looked stunned and furious and, under that, raw with fear.

He had warned Kelly to be careful. How could there be a record of something like that? He opened his mouth, then closed it.

“Bella, you’ve doctored that footage,” Alfred accused, but his voice lacked conviction.

Bella smiled without humor. “Maybe. Maybe not. The King already has the data. I’ve been told Kingwell will open an investigation. Consider this a warning: your old comrades will start asking questions.”

Silence pressed down like hot iron. Alfred’s past flickered across his face — the years he spent inside Kingwell’s ranks.

If they investigated, there would be nowhere left to run.

Gunfire hammered the walls outside like a storm of iron. Each burst sounded impossibly loud.

“Mr. Kingston, we have to move — now!” the secretary screamed, voice raw. “They’re at the gate. The guards can’t hold them.”

Alfred stared at the governor’s meeting still glowing on the screen.

Help wouldn’t come from there.

The trouble was already inside the ring. He didn’t argue. He rose, face hard, and walked out of his office into the corridor.

They ran down the service stair, boots slapping stone. At the back yard the private plane waited, silver and impatient against the dark.

Men were already pouring from the hedges; a group of rioters burst up from some shadow and opened fire.

“Governor! Governor!” someone shouted as bullets spat across the tarmac. Alfred ducked his head and charged for the plane’s open hatch.

Charles slammed to the helipad and yanked at the door.

He’d flown choppers before. This should be simple.

But the ignition switch was bare. No key. Shouts rose from below as the mob clawed toward the stairs. “There he is—don’t let him leave!” someone screamed.

Hands reached the rooftop. Men were already sprinting up. Charles didn’t freeze.

He tore through the cockpit, yanking open every compartment, checking under the dash, the side panels, even beneath the pilot’s seat.

His hands moved frantic, desperate.

At last his fingers scraped something solid tucked into a hidden slot on the dashboard — a small metal box. He ripped it open, found the spare key, and jammed it into the ignition.

The engine coughed, then roared. The rotor sliced the air into a hard, whining wind.

Angry hands slapped at the tail and the skids. A dozen people grabbed for his jacket. “Stop him!” they shouted.

Charles yanked back, shoved the collective weight off him, and slammed the throttle forward.

The helicopter lunged, clawed the air, and rose.

A few hands lost their grip and dropped into the dark; a scream tore through the rooftop as someone fell away.

Charles didn’t look down. He tilted the nose up and punched the aircraft into the night sky until the city became a scatter of lights.

Below, the hospital seethed with violence. Kelly staggered under the assault — fists cracking against her, boots slamming into her ribs.

Pain exploded through her chest, each breath torn away. Fear swept over her, crushing and absolute, with the brutal certainty that she might not survive.

Then the pressure stopped. Bodies cleared like a curtain.

A broad back planted itself between her and the mob, blocking the blows. Rough hands hauled anyone who tried to reach her away.

“She’s Kelly Kingston!” one man howled. “She must die—Kingstons die!”

“That woman’s not a Kingston,” the protector snapped. “Her name is Kelly Knight.”

The voice hit Kelly like a chord. She knew it—felt it in her bones. Something in her chest unclenched.

A single tear slipped down her cheek as the man held the mob at bay, his silhouette towering against the fiery light.

She had always believed he would come for her — and now, at the moment she needed him most, he was here.