QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL) Chapter 161: Mine alone

Chapter 161 – Daphne POV

It was all going so well—too well, in hindsight. We had a clear path, a cleaned-up board, and every piece falling into place. And then, of course, Valentino had to flip the damn thing like a spoiled child losing at chess.

Now, every move is reactionary. Every hour, another fire to put out.

I take the Ziploc bag Estela gave and hold it up to the light. Marco’s finger floats inside like a grotesque trophy, shriveled but undeniable. His death won’t bring back the people he helped kill, but it sends a ssage.

And I make sure that ssage gets delivered.

First thing in the morning, the bag is sent—via a courier who’s loyal, untraceable, and absolutely terrified—to wherever Valentino is currently hiding his cowardly face. I don’t bother with a note. He’ll know. That finger will say more than I ever could.

It’s beco a pattern, now. Every ti he thinks he’s slipped past us, that he’s safe, I send a piece of soone he trusted. A jawbone. A toe.

Bit by bit, I’m letting him know: I am the blade behind the smile, and I’m not done with him yet.

The intel we got from Marco’s wife is garbage now. She tried to be useful—tried to trade information for leniency—but everything she gave us was already dead. Dead routes. Dead aliases. Dead leads.

So we throw it all out and start again.

The only silver lining in this entire ss is Raffaele. He’s stepping up in a way I didn’t expect. No longer hiding in the shadows, no longer asking what to do—he’s making decisions. Ruthless, clever, necessary ones. The kind of decisions that earn loyalty.

People are following him now. Not just out of fear or blood ties—but belief. He’s becoming what we need.

And Grace... Grace is proving herself too. She’s working around the clock with the PR division, cleaning up the dia, guiding the narrative, hosting closed-door etings with the right families, bribing and smiling and controlling the image of Castellano through sheer force of will.

It’s all up to Luciano and Raffaele now. The line has been drawn, and they’re the only two real contenders left in this war.

Valentino Jr.? He’s finished. Even if—and it’s a big if—he managed to kill them both, no one would follow him. Not anymore.

Not after what he did.

Turning the Castellano estate to ash wasn’t just an act of war. It was sacrilege.

That house wasn’t just stone and marble—it was legacy. The ancestral seat of power. The symbol of Castellano pride for generations. Weddings were held there. Oaths were made there. Blood was spilled there, yes—but honorably, well as honorable as a mafia family can be.And he reduced it to smoke and bone like it ant nothing.

In doing so, he didn’t just burn down the walls. He burned his last thread of legitimacy.

Now, even the most ruthless old families—those who once whispered about his bloodline and secret potential—won’t touch him. He’s tainted. A rat. The kind of man who’d torch his own na just to feel powerful for five more minutes.

As we speak, contractors and structural engineers are combing through the estate’s blackened skeleton. Trying to see what can be salvaged—if anything. Maybe a wing. Maybe a cellar.

I walk into my room, the sharp scent of lavender shampoo still lingering in the air. Estela stands in front of the mirror, towel wrapped around her body, her hair damp and clinging to her shoulders as she rubs at it with another towel.

She looks up when she sees in the reflection. There’s sothing soft in her eyes—calm, maybe even peace. The kind of look I’d kill to preserve.

"Let ," I say, reaching out to take the towel from her hands.

She doesn’t argue. She never really does with .

I guide her to the chair by the vanity and gently sit her down. Her back is bare, glistening slightly with leftover steam. I press the towel to her hair and start patting it dry, slow and careful, like she’s sothing fragile and precious.

"You know," I murmur as I work through the knots, "you didn’t have to get rid of Marco."

"I know," she replies softly.

I grab the dryer, set it to warm, and turn it on. The hum fills the silence between us as I finger-comb through her hair, then gently blow it out, piece by piece.

"But I wanted to help," she says after a mont.

"Not just sit around looking decorative."

"Estela..." I start, but she cuts off with a flick of her wrist, lazy and theatrical.

"I know, I know. I don’t need to. I’m supposed to sit here, look pretty, do what I want, occasionally flash you and ride your face."

I laugh—can’t help it. The image is accurate and ridiculous and hot all at once. I take the dryer and plug it in, cause this towel will take forever.

The air grows warr as I keep drying, her hair shifting like silk between my fingers. She’s beautiful—always has been—but like this? Bare-faced, damp, relaxed, with no blood on her hands or blade under her pillow?

She’s perfect.

She turns slightly to glance at .

"But I wanted to. Did you forget? Assassin, here. Killer, here."

"Yeah," I say, leaning a little closer. "But you’re also normal. With a sane moral compass. Unlike the rest of us."

Unlike .

I sleep fine, eat well. Maybe it’s this being my third life. Maybe I was always like this, this psychopath and only the circumstances changed.

"Maybe," she says, shrugging. "But I’m also in love with soone deep in the criminal underworld, so... minor details."

I switch off the dryer and run my fingers through her hair one last ti. It falls around her shoulders like ink on porcelain—soft, wavy, thick. She should be in a shampoo comrcial, honestly.

I set the dryer down.

"So," I say, circling around to face her, "about those last two things you said."

She blinks. Stands up slowly, planting her hands on her hips, towel tucked snug around her chest.

"Are you serious?" she asks, one brow arched.

I grin. "Soone once told distraction cos in many forms."

And then I step closer, hands slipping around her waist, fingers tugging gently at the knot of her towel.

She doesn’t stop .

The towel flutters to the ground, and my breath hitches.

Her skin’s still damp, warm from the shower, glowing under the golden light of the room.

"Do you ever not have stars in your eyes?" she teases, exasperated but affectionate.

"You’ve seen naked, like, a thousand tis."

"Ssshhh, don’t listen to her," I murmur dramatically, lowering my face to her chest and cupping her breasts with reverence. "My beauties, you are always radiant."

She laughs. Genuinely. Her head tilts back, and I get to see the part of her that’s mine alone.