Dark Lord Seduction System: Taming Wives, Daughters, Aunts, and CEOs novel Chapter 603

Chapter 603: Lincoln Gang

The alley behind the rail yard stank of rust, wet concrete, and the faint metallic tang of old blood baked into the ground from fights long past, the sodium lamp overhead flickering like a dying heartbeat casting erratic shadow that danced across the chain-link fence.

Reyna’s fingers were still laced through mine, her pulse a rapid drum against my palm, when the shadows thickened—seven silhouettes peeling from the darkness with the synchronized menace of a pack that had hunted these streets together for years.

Three girls stepped into the orange glow first, hips cocked like loaded weapons, lips glossy and curled in identical sneers; four boys fanned behind them, shoulders squared, knuckles already cracking, the air around them humming with the low menace of territory marked and challenged.

The tallest girl drawled, voice syrupy with fake sugar, nails tapping a rhythm on her hip. "Look who dragged in fresh meat."

Reyna’s grip tightened. "Back off, Marisol. We’re just passing through."

"Passing through with him?" Marisol’s laugh was sharp glass. "Upgrade much?"

I catalogued them in a single, cold sweep: Marisol—bleached roots, red vinyl jacket, eyes like switchblades; girl two—cigarette ember glowing, smirk sharp enough to cut glass; girl three—lashes batting slow, but the hunger in her gaze was pure predator.

The boys were no less obvious: gold-chain with shaved sides, chest puffed like a rooster; wiry-tat with the faded neck tattoo and twitchy fingers; buzzcut, heavy fists; and lanky, hanging back, eyes darting like he already regretted showing up.

Marisol took the lead, heels clicking a slow, deliberate rhythm on the cracked asphalt, each step a claim.

"Well, if it isn’t Lincoln Heights’ favorite stray with her usual energy—crawling back with a leash this time," she purred, voice dripping acid-sweet venom. "Who’s the suit? Rich-boy catalog? Page three—tall, dark, and clueless? Or did you finally trade up from the clearance rack of losers?"

Girl two flicked her cigarette, the ember sparking as it hit the ground near Reyna’s sneakers. "Upgrade from gas-station roses and broken condoms, huh? Or did you finally learn to aim higher than community college dropouts who still jerk off to your yearbook photo?"

Girl three tilted her head, lashes batting like butterfly knives, her voice a mocking sing-song. "He’s pretty. Bet he doesn’t know you still sleep with a switchblade under your pillow, Rey-Rey. Or that you cried in the Taco Bell bathroom senior year because your ’soulmate’ friend ghosted you for her boyfriend with a car."

"Enough," Reyna snapped, stepping half in front of me, chin lifted, shoulders squared. "Walk away, Marisol. Tonight’s not your night. Keep pushing and I’ll carve that smirk off your face."

Marisol’s laugh was sharp glass shattering on concrete. "It’s our corner. You’re the one trespassing—with him"

She circled closer, nails tapping a war rhythm on her thigh, eyes raking over me like she was pricing meat. "Where’d you find him? Smells like old money, new mistakes, and a mid-life crisis he hasn’t earned yet."

The boys closed ranks. Gold-chain stepped forward, gold chain glinting under the lamp, chest puffed, voice a low growl. "You talk big for someone who used to beg for my help to get gigs at parties—on your knees, remember, Rey-Rey?"

His gaze slid to me, dismissive at first, then snagged on the Patek gleaming on my wrist. "This your new charity case? Pretty boy’s quiet. What’s wrong, príncipe? Scared to open your mouth without Daddy’s trust fund to back it? Or did the Botox freeze your balls too?"

Wiry-tat spat on the ground, the glob landing inches from my shoe. "Bet he’s never thrown a punch outside a country club. Let’s see how long that pretty face lasts—probably melts faster than your mama’s makeup in July."

The air thickened; the lamp buzzed louder, casting my shadow long and sharp across the alley. Gold-chain’s bravado flickered; wiry-tat’s twitchy fingers stilled. Even the girls shifted, sensing the shift in gravity.

The biggest one—shaved sides, gold chain glinting—stepped forward, eyes locked on my wrist. "Nice Patek, bro. Hand it over and maybe we let you limp out with your teeth."

I didn’t move. Just let the silence stretch until the lamp buzzed louder than their breathing. Then I smiled—slow, unbothered, the kind of smile.

Buzzcut cracked his knuckles, the sound like dry twigs snapping. "Didn’t ya hear? Clock’s ticking, rich boy. Hand over the watch, the wallet, whatever shiny shit you’re flaunting. Maybe we let you limp out with your teeth—and your dignity, if you can find it in that overpriced suit."

Lanky, still hanging back, muttered, "Dude’s not even scared. Look at him smiling. Probably pisses caviar."

I smiled again—slow, lazy, the kind that says I’ve already won and you’re just catching up.

[Ding! Mission generated.]

Act Cool: Beat the boys and act all cool doing it.

Rewards: Protection Mark!]

His momentum carried him forward; I added the gentlest push—center of gravity, leverage, physics—and he flew, shoulder slamming into the chain-link fence with a metallic clang that rattled the entire alley.

He crumpled, gold chain tangled in the mesh, gasping, ego shredded before his pride hit the ground.

His feet left the ground for a heartbeat; I released at the perfect angle, sending him crashing into Buzzcut. They collided in a tangle of limbs and curses, sneakers scraping concrete, elbows flying, both sprawling in a heap against a stack of rusted oil drums that clanged like church bells.

He stumbled backward, arms pinwheeling, and slammed spine-first into a dumpster with a hollow boom that echoed off the brick walls. The lid rattled shut behind him; he slid down, dazed, buzzcut scraping metal.

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