QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL) Chapter 121: Family

Chapter 121 – Daphne POV

Apart from Luciano’s little show of testosterone and inherited delusion, no one else has dared to bother .

Perfect.

I like it that way.

The family may whisper behind their glasses and trade glances thick with judgnt, but none of them have the guts to say it to my face. Not with Julie flanking like a vengeful saint in stilettos and eyeliner sharp enough to carve bone.

They know better.

Now we’re going to church.

---

The Castellanos don’t do modest ceremonies.

They do pageantry disguised as grief.

A long motorcade lines the estate’s circular driveway—black luxury cars polished to a mirror shine. n in crisp suits adjust their cuffs like they’re preparing for battle. Won in veils and diamonds cry without ruining their mascara.

I sit in the back of the second car with Julie, legs crossed, hands resting on my lap.

The church is thirty minutes away. The capital’s oldest cathedral. Grand. Gothic. Cold. The kind of place where sins echo longer than prayers do.

I watch the passing city through the tinted window, noting again how stable everything is here.

No buildings disappearing. No faces glitching. No wrong weather patterns or skipping shadows.

This place feels like it’s anchored.

Like the narrative here is still intact.

---

The church rises in the distance—gray stone and towering spires, gargoyles hunched like watchers over centuries of Castellano sins.

The streets outside are lined with silent mourners. Or spectators. Or both.

So clutch rosaries. Others, phones.

I step out of the car as caras click from behind barricades. My suit is black, sharp, simple. Masculine. Intentional.

Julie’s beside in a long lace veil over his platinum curls, wearing a floor-length black gown that sohow makes him more terrifying.

We don’t pause. We walk straight in.

The doors groan open. Candles flicker in the dim air. The sll of incense and old wood wraps around like ghosts. Rows upon rows of pews already filled with governnt officials, old mafia families, secret society mbers in disguise. Everyone is here.

Everyone who matters.

And all of them are watching.

---

I take my seat near the front— reserved for direct family.

Julie peels off to join the other security, his stilettos whispering against the stone floor. I watch the flickers of distaste that pass through the crowd like smoke when he takes his place among the stoic, suited guards. Eyes narrow. Mouths tighten. Soone near the back even crosses themselves.

I almost laugh.

It never fails to amuse —how Julie’s existence unsettles them more than guns or ghosts. A tall, muscled man in full makeup and a black gown standing as deadly as any bodyguard? To them, that’s more terrifying than the fact that half the people here have blood on their hands.

Good.

Let them choke on it.

A whisper sharp as perfu hits my ear.

"Daphne, it’s your father’s funeral. Could you not wear sothing appropriate?"

I turn slowly.

Of course.

My mother.

She’s seated beside , cloaked in mourning black and old wealth. Her jewelry is subtle today—small diamonds, elegant pearls. Her face, once known across the southern coast for its beauty, still holds the remnants of that legend. Cheekbones like they were carved for nobility. Eyes too sharp to ever look soft.

The Castellano genes didn’t give us our looks. That was all her. Every last bone of it.

Well—almost all.

I glance past her.

The youngest brother, Tommaso, is seated to her other side. Quiet. Still. Staring straight ahead with that eerie blankness he wears like armor. No hello. No glance. No nod.

Maybe he thinks if he ignores hard enough, I’ll evaporate.

Or maybe he just knows better than to draw attention.

He takes after Father—unfortunate in the looks departnt, but maybe that’s why she favors him. So weird maternal redemption arc.

I turn back to her, letting my lips curve in a polite, deadpan smile.

"This is appropriate, Mother."

She looks up and down with a sigh of resigned disappointnt.

The black tailored suit is crisp. My shirt is spotless. There’s even black embroidery at the collar—hand-stitched, custom-fitted, obscenely expensive.

But I don’t say any of that. There’s no point. She doesn’t want facts.

She wants obedience.

Her fingers press sothing into my hand. Lace.

A veil. Dramatic. Gothic. The kind that drips old money and Vatican trauma.

I hesitate—briefly.

Then I plop it over my head, letting the lace fall across my face. I’m going to be the bigger person.

The priest steps forward, robes swishing as he ascends the altar.

The murmurs die.

And then—

Renzo.

Staggering down the aisle like a tragedy in slow motion.

He reeks of whiskey and bad decisions, dressed in a crumpled suit and last night’s regrets. His tie’s half undone. His eyes are red—not from grief, but from whatever he was drinking before soone shoved him into the car this morning.

He finds his seat beside Luciano.

Luciano, who turns to stone the mont Renzo drops beside him, dragging the stink of rebellion and rot with him.

Through the veil, I catch the flicker of pure loathing that crosses Luciano’s face.

I nearly laugh out loud.

Maybe the veil isn’t so bad after all.

It hides the smirk curling at the edge of my lips.

The priest’s voice drifts across the cathedral, solemn and practiced, the kind of intonation trained over decades of burying n who did terrible things with immaculate hands.

He speaks of legacy. Of honor. Of power tempered with love.

I resist the urge to snort.

Valentino Castellano had many talents. Love was not one of them. Control? Yes. Fear? Absolutely. But love? That man wouldn’t recognize it if it stabbed him in the back—and frankly, it probably did. I’m so funny sotis.

The scent of incense coils through the pews like a snake. My head aches.

Luciano’s back is straight. Posture perfect. Mourning sculpted into every line of his jaw. If anyone were taking photos—and soone probably is—he’d be the image of a grieving son ready to lead.

Renzo, beside him, slouches like he’s about to pass out. He’s chewing sothing. Gum? No. A hangover mint. Classy.

The priest starts listing Valentino’s accolades—his deals, his empire, his ruthless glory.

I tune it out.

Instead, I imagine what this place will look like the next ti we gather.

Because we will.

For a wedding.

For a coronation.

Or a funeral. There’s a lot of funerals in this family.

Whichever cos first. I think it’s a funeral.