QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL) Chapter 123: Exhausting

Chapter 122 – Daphne POV

This is so exhausting.

How long is a funeral really supposed to last? Because I’m convinced we’ve circled back into so purgatorial overti.

The sun is already starting to sink behind the trees, casting long shadows across the Castellano family cetery. Everything here is too clean. Too manicured. Marble tombs, sculpted angels, tall iron gates. Every corner polished like death itself needs a PR team.

We’ve been here the whole day.

The procession. The service. The staged grief. Now the final burial.

The coffin is being lowered into the ground—slowly, reverently, like it’s afraid to wake the dead already buried here.

This cetery has housed Castellano Dons for... I don’t know how many generations. Five? Six? At this point, they might as well dig up a separate wing for all the family secrets and skeletons that never made it to the box.

I stand by the edge of the grave, wrapped in shadow and black lace, watching as the first of the tokens are dropped.

Luciano steps forward, slow and precise, like he’s trying to choreograph his grief for the caras that aren’t here. He pulls a signet ring from his pocket—one of Father’s—and lets it fall in.

It lands with a soft, tallic click against the satin wood of the coffin.

He stays a beat longer, jaw clenched, then turns away.

Renzo follows.

He’s still wearing his funeral suit, though the shirt’s half untucked and his tie is hanging on by a prayer. At least he’s stopped slurring. That’s progress.

He pulls out a flask. Silver. Personal. Probably filled with sothing cheap and cruel. His hand wavers over the grave, and for a mont, I wonder if he’s going to drink instead.

But he doesn’t.

He drops it in with a sigh and staggers back like he’s just finished sothing noble.

I roll my eyes under the veil.

My turn.

I step forward, slow and sure, the heels of my boots crunching against gravel. The priest gives a polite nod. I return nothing.

My fingers close around the object in my coat pocket. A black matte lighter. One of Father’s favorites—or at least a replica of one. I’d had it custom-engraved.

D.C. for him. Or maybe for .

I toss it in.

It clinks once against another lighter already resting there. Of course. The man smoked cigars like it was a divine right.

A tiny heap of them has ford—his children paying tribute with fire.

Fitting, really.

The lighter disappears into the growing shadows at the base of the grave. The priest begins the final rites, murmuring Latin blessings that float faintly over the silence.

Fiorella steps forward next. The oldest sibling, she has a different mother and is currently married to a vice president.

Her heels don’t make a sound. Her dress is perfect. Her veil is trimd with subtle diamonds, barely visible in the dimming light. She doesn’t cry.

She pulls a rosary from her wrist—gold, delicate, and kisses the crucifix before dropping it in. Her lips move in prayer, but no sound escapes.

Her husband, the Vice President, stands a few paces behind her, hands folded, eyes sharp. Watching everyone. Especially .

I ignore him.

When she returns to her place, she doesn’t even glance in my direction.

Tommaso, as expected, doesn’t participate.

He just stares at the hole in the ground like he wants it to speak. And when it doesn’t, he turns and leaves.

Typical.

-

The last of the soil is shoveled in.

The priest gives a final benediction, the choir of birds overhead almost mocking in their gentle song.

And just like that, it’s done.

Valentino Castellano is in the ground.

Dead.

Gone.

As the crowd begins to thin, I step back, letting the swirl of black clothes and murmured condolences pass by. Luciano is already at the edge of the cetery, whispering to one of Father’s old capos, the way n do when they think the throne is theirs by birthright.

I watch him from beneath the veil.

The power struggle has already started.

The war hasn’t been declared, but I can feel it humming beneath every glance, every handshake, every strained smile between cousins.

I feel a presence at my side.

Julie.

***

As the last of the mourners slip away and the grave workers begin sealing the earth with practiced indifference, I finally turn toward the waiting cars.

I’m ready to leave. My feet ache. My head is a dull throb from incense, smoke, and strained politeness. I just want to peel out of this veil, grab a drink, and maybe collapse on top of a dossier of enemies until morning.

But fate, as always, has other plans.

I’m almost to the car when I bump into soone—a firm, unmoving body that steps directly into my path.

I stagger back half a pace, instinctively lifting my eyes—

And there he is.

Valentino Castellano Jr.

Bastard son. Ghost of a rumor. A man who’s been lingering at the edges of the ceremony all day like a smudge no one wants to acknowledge. Not quite invited, but not kicked out either.

He’s not striking. Average height, average face, though he’s got Father’s jawline and that sa cold stare, like he’s always calculating the worth of whatever he’s looking at.

Including .

I blink, forcing a smile as I adjust my veil.

"Well, well. Brother. Hello."

My tone is light—performative, even. It’s not warmth, but it’s... polite.

He stares at for a second too long.

Then:

"Hello," he says flatly, before brushing past hard enough to jostle my shoulder.

I stop.

I turn.

Stare after him as he walks toward the far side of the cetery, alone.

What the actual—

Asshole.

That’s what I get for trying to be decent.

I rub my shoulder where he hit it. Not that it hurt, but the sheer audacity. I swear I can still sll his cologne—a bitter, musky blend of cheap ambition and resentnt.

So. That’s where we stand.

Valentino Jr. doesn’t want peace. He doesn’t want civility.

He wants blood. Fine by .