QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL) Chapter 168: Tension

Chapter 168 - Daphne POV

Everyone important in Castellano waits, and they are visibly unhappy. Tension coils in the air like a frayed wire. But I had this eting called for a reason.

Because this is urgent.

What the fuck happened in this reset?

Valentino—when I get my hands on him, I swear to fucking God, he won’t die an easy death like before. No. He’ll beg.

"What is it? You have information on Valentino? Why couldn’t you just email it, instead of calling this whole eting under the guise of your fucking puppet?" Luciano scoffs, arms folded.

I used Raffaele’s na to call this eting. Heir candidates have that much authority, so they all had to co. Raffaele, lounging near the far end of the room, sends a lazy middle finger Luciano’s way in response.

I move to the center of the long table, letting silence pull the attention back to .

"I know we all have better things to do," I begin, calm and clear.

"But this is very bad. I found Valentino. And we should all prepare for war."

The murmuring halts.

As if on cue, several aides step forward and distribute the papers I printed out. Satellite images. One grainy, but revealing enough.

"This is a satellite capture from two nights ago," I explain. "That’s Valentino. He’s not alone. They’re taking cargo at the docks."

One of the n barely glances before scoffing. "Yeah, and? So what, he’s smuggling guns, big surprise."

"Look closer," I say. "At the location."

Another man leans in, tracing the coordinates.

"What loc—"

He stops himself. His face goes pale.

"Bastardo!" he bellows, smacking the table.

The room explodes.

A storm of cursing, chairs scraping, voices overlapping, all in furious Italian. Panic, rage, and disbelief swirl like a hurricane around .

Exactly.

This was the reaction I wanted—the weight of reality finally pressing down on these overfed lions in suits.

I tune it out. My mind is elsewhere.

South Arica.

The Reyes Sangrientos cartel.

Castellano operates with rules, with structure. Our cris have polish. Politics. Image. There’s an art to our cruelty. Definitely not a biased take.

But them? Those bastards are raw chaos. Guns in broad daylight. Bodies on sidewalks. They don’t hide, don’t negotiate, don’t pretend. They’re the kind of monsters that chew through allies and enemies alike.

We don’t poke the bear. Castellano is not weak but who on earth wants an all out war, in this day and age?

And Valentino? He waltzed right into the jungle with a can of gasoline and a smile.

***

Luciano POV

Just when you solve one problem, another bursts through the doors like an uninvited ghost of your past.

I will kill that son of a bitch. When I get my hands on him, I won’t be poetic about it. I won’t monologue. I won’t delay.

I’ll put a bullet in his mouth mid-sentence.

I glare at the blurry, looped footage playing across the screen. Drone feed. One of ours.

Warehouses burning—again. Smoke billowing like a funeral pyre for Castellano pride. Crates turned to ash. Shipnts gone. Supply lines severed at the knees.

No way he orchestrated this alone. And if he’s their dog, they’ve ard him with fire and told him to run wild through our empire.

I grit my teeth.

My empire.

I don’t care what blood runs through his veins—he forfeited the right to call himself Castellano the mont he betrayed us.

****

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Daphne POV

The number of explosions going off lately is ridiculous. It feels like every ti I blink, another goddamn building goes up in smoke, another ship, another car.

Luciano has gone full throttle—gun for gun, bomb for bomb. Very macho, very dramatic. It’s almost impressive how recklessly committed he is to escalation.

Is no one concerned about the ozone layer? Global warming? Environntal collapse? I an, we are technically in the middle of a collapsing story-world, but still.

Then again, as I lean forward and look out the window, I realize the explosions are the least of my problems.

There, on the edge of the horizon, space itself fractures—glitching like cracked glass. I watch as a brick building turns upside down like it lost gravity, then folds in on itself like a box being shut. So humans walk directly into the air. One woman floats past a light pole and vanishes into a flicker of nothing.

Okay.

Right. The world’s broken.

Being in the city—where the story is grounded, stable—almost made forget how other places of the planet are . Entire chunks of space are rewritten daily. Reality rewinds, reforms, and swallows itself whole.

Still.

I don’t mind.

The helicopter touches down with a soft jolt and the blades roar as they begin to slow. I hop out quickly, ducking slightly, the wind whipping my jacket. I turn and reach up to help Estela out.

This wasn’t supposed to be a sentintal trip. I was coming here to fuck over the cartel. Make a statent. Burn a few things down.

But Estela overheard the plan, and apparently, this is her hotown.

What are the odds?

And when she looked at with those beautiful, soft, begging eyes and asked if she could tag along—

Well. I’m not made of stone.

Sigh. I should really grow a backbone when it cos to her.

But I probably won’t. Ever.

We trek a few miles under the heavy midday sun, Julie trailing silently behind us like a ghost in heels. The helicopter lifts off behind us with a roar, fading into the fractured skyline.

Soon enough, we find the sleek black car waiting—chro like obsidian, windows tinted. We slide into the back seat, and I glance at Estela.

She’s unusually quiet.

She has her hands folded neatly in her lap, posture stiff. She doesn’t say a word the entire drive, and though her face is expressionless, I know her. The silence is too complete. Too controlled.

We pull up to the most luxurious hotel I could find in the area—complete with gaudy gold trim, floor-to-ceiling windows, and staff trained to pretend they don’t recognize your face from tabloids.

We’re just an obnoxiously rich couple here on vacation. Nothing to see here.

I already catch a few staff mbers side-eyeing us.

First order of business: sweep for bugs. This isn’t my first rodeo. I find six hidden caras within twenty minutes. Not even subtle ones.

Amateurs.

I disable each one thodically, cracking the lenses with a knife or slicing through wires behind lamps and paintings. It’s oddly therapeutic.

An hour later, I finally take a breath, toss the last disabled cara into the trash bin, and step out of the bathroom.

I find her standing by the massive window, barefoot, arms crossed, eyes fixed far beyond the skyline.

She doesn’t move.

I walk up behind her slowly and wrap my arms around her shoulders from behind. She leans back into like she was waiting for it.

"So," I murmur into her hair, "how are you feeling?"

"Weird," she says softly. "It’s been years."

I hum, letting her take her ti.

"It’s changed so much," she adds after a pause, "yet it hasn’t."

I follow her gaze and blink. There’s a floating tree drifting past the window, and right behind it, a taxi drives straight across midair—sixteen floors up.

Okay. Not exactly the nostalgia tour she was expecting.

"We’ll co again one day," I say gently. "This ti, for vacation. No guns. No chaos."

She smiles faintly.

"Yeah."

She leans even further into , her body warm, her presence grounding.

"I just wish I could see the girls," she whispers.

My chest tightens.

"You know you can’t. It’s too dangerous now," I say, turning her in my arms.

She nods. "I know. It’s just a wish."