QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL) Chapter 141: Ruthless and future plans

Chapter 141

Raffaele POV

I sit here, watching Daphne as she negotiates with the Irish table of vipers like she was born for it. Her voice is calm but assertive, every word calculated, yet natural. I understand now why there were rumors she orchestrated several international deals abroad—and that none of them failed.

It wasn’t exaggeration. It was fact.

Her presence dominates the room, and she’s not even trying. The old n here, hardened and used to blood in their whiskey, listen to her. They don’t interrupt. They don’t scoff. One even nods along, impressed.

And ?

I’m just trying not to look like a stunned idiot. I’ve been raised to think power only belongs to a certain kind of man. But Daphne? She shatters that image without a single raised voice. She sits there in a pressed suit, legs crossed, a dark file open on the table before her, her tone even and her smile razor-sharp.

She belongs here. In a way that makes the rest of us look like amateurs playing dress-up.

At so point she slides the file toward .

"Sign this," she says without looking.

I glance down. It’s the trade route rger between one of our arms suppliers and an Irish port contact. We’ve been trying to lock this down for months.

I sign.

She slides it back.

More talking. More nodding. And then—it’s done. The Irish leader claps his hands.

"To new blood," he says.

"To efficient partnerships," Daphne replies, raising her glass.

I follow, lifting mine as well. My throat is dry.

Later, as we step outside into the crisp air, I can’t help but glance at her.

I think she’s scary, because she’s underestimated.

I am admittedly more open-minded than my brothers. I have several businesses under , specifically won-owned, that were supposed to be a secret.

But she found out. Sohow.

I suppose I still subtly looked down on her, even with that respect.

But so many tis—so many tis—she’s saved my life. And I owe it to her.

I understand now I’m not as good as I thought I was.

And I’m clearly shit at picking subordinates, given how many tis I’ve been betrayed.

I’m pretty sure, had Daphne been a man, none of us would have stood a chance. Not in business. Not in influence. Not in legacy.

She’s terrifying in her precision, her ability to predict moves before they’re made. And the worst part? She doesn’t gloat about it. She just expects you to catch up.

We step off the stone steps leading from the eting hall into the lower courtyard, boots crunching over loose gravel. I drag in a breath of sharp Irish air.

"Get it together," she says suddenly.

I turn toward her, blinking.

"You think this is it? You think just because the Irish signed, the ga’s done? It’s not. This was the easy part, Raffaele. Now we bleed. Now we purge. And you—you need to stop doubting yourself and act like the heir you want to be."

Her tone isn’t cruel. It’s cutting only because it’s true.

I nod.

A purge.

Yes. That’s what we need.

No more moles. No more mistakes. No more second chances.

I steel my resolve, spine straightening.

She catches my gaze and seems satisfied.

"Co on," she says. "There’s soone I want you to et."

We head around the curved garden path. Eventually, we co to a smaller terrace, secluded by hedges. A girl sits there, maybe early twenties. Her posture is upright, precise. She’s stirring tea absently but looks up as we approach.

She’s beautiful. That much is obvious. But there’s a sharpness in her eyes, a calculation. She’s not just pretty—she’s intelligent.

"Raffaele, et Regina," Daphne says. "One of the seven children of Donovan Kearney. You know the na."

I stiffen.

Donovan Kearney. Yeah, just left a eting with him.

Regina rises smoothly, extending a gloved hand. We shake, and her grip is firm.

After so pleasantries, she excuses herself, graceful as smoke.

Daphne doesn’t miss a beat. She leans toward .

"That’s Regina. She’s going to be married off for an alliance anyway. Use your looks. She’s smart, connected, and desperately tired of being treated like a chess piece. Appease her desire to be seen."

I freeze.

She says it like it’s weather. Like it’s normal.

That’s when I see it.

The part of Daphne I’ve been blind to. Or maybe refused to acknowledge.

Not just the strategist. Not just the protector. But the manipulator. The puppeteer.

She’s not cruel. But she’s ruthless. And in that mont, I realize she could be terrifying.

She turns away, already speaking to soone else, already setting another piece in motion.

And I can’t help but wonder how much of her loyalty is still real—and how much is simply tactical.

*

Later, I find Regina again, this ti seated in the sa terrace garden, her teacup long emptied, her expression still and unreadable.

I clear my throat.

"Mind so company?"

She glances up. "Only if it’s interesting."

I smile slightly and take the seat beside her.

"You’re not what I expected," she says after a mont. "Your family is famously chaotic."

"And yours isn’t?" I quip.

That earns the ghost of a smirk.

"Touché."

There’s a pause. Not awkward, just filled with cautious curiosity. She watches like a scholar dissects a new subject—carefully, slowly, unafraid to draw blood.

"What do you want, Castellano?"

Straight to the point.

I consider lying. But sothing about her presence makes that feel... unwise.

"Daphne thinks we could benefit each other," I say. "But I’d rather hear what you want."

She leans back, her gloved fingers tracing the rim of her cup.

"That depends. Are you charming, or just a pretty face with blood on your hands?"

"Can’t I be both?"

She laughs then, soft and sharp.

"Fine. Impress ."

So I do.

We talk. About literature, politics, power, family legacies. She’s sharper than anyone in my family—too sharp to be caged like so trophy bride. I wonder if that’s what Daphne ant.

She doesn’t want to be wanted. She wants to be understood. Seen.

By the end of the conversation, I realize sothing else:

Daphne wasn’t just sending into the lion’s den.

She handed the lioness and dared to keep up.

****

Daphne POV

Estela is on my lap, asleep. She’s so cute when she’s not trying to pretend she isn’t dangerous. Her head nuzzles into my collarbone like it belongs there, her breathing steady and warm against my skin.

I look to the left, down the aisle of the private plane. Raffaele is seated across from us, flipping through so battered paperback novel. The picture of brooding contemplation.

"So," I murmur, keeping my voice low enough not to wake Estela, "how’d it go with Regina?"

He groans.

"She’s smart. And cunning. And ambitious."

"Sounds like a nightmare," I deadpan, stroking small circles against Estela’s lower back.

"Or your soulmate."

He side-eyes . I grin.

Of course Regina’s all those things. If I want Raffaele to be the main protagonist of this war, he needs more than brute strength or boyish charm. He needs allies. Not just any allies—useful won. Powerful won. Not the simpering ’rescue ’ types, but the kind who walk into a room and silence it with one look.

Regina was perfect. Fifth daughter of a powerful Irish syndicate family, too overlooked to be considered a real player, but smart enough to read the ga. Her brothers are already entrenched. Her sisters married off to n with real clout. Regina? She’s the best-kept secret.

Even if she knows Raffaele is using her, she’s not foolish enough to walk away from the opportunity. It’s too juicy a steak to pass up.

"Man up," I say, chuckling softly. "You’re a Castellano man, aren’t you?"

He mutters sothing into his book. I ignore it.

As Estela shifts on my lap, her fingers twitching, I think about the future.

I should ask her when she wakes up if she has assassin friends. Loyal ones. Ones she’d vouch for. Raffaele may be my chosen lead, but even I admit—he’s not as cunning as Luciano, nor as vicious as Valentino Jr. He’s a mild blend of both, tempered by humanity.

And that? That’s a flaw.

So I’ll build the pieces around him. Place the right people at his side. Give him a harem of fire and blade—won who don’t just survive, but conquer.

And when he’s finally strong enough to leave the nest?

I’ll go live happily ever after with my sweet, sleepy beloved.

Maybe to a tropical island? Just sandy beaches and Estela in a bikini.

And Raffaele will remain behind, with the war, and heir gas, and whatever else is happening in Castellano.

I never planned to be a major player in the plot anyway, I just wanted enough strength to not be killed.

I like this broken world and the freedom I have, to move chess pieces. If only all worlds were like this.

...Speaking of worlds—

I haven’t heard from the system. Not once. Not since I landed here.

What’s going on?