QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL) Chapter 169: Worn out

169 -

Raffaele POV

I open my eyes and groan softly, blinking away the blurry ceiling above . My hand instinctively stretches out, smacking gently into the smooth curve of a naked thigh. Then another. Then another.

My vision sharpens, and I sit up slowly, taking stock. Three naked bodies sprawled across the oversized bed, tangled in sheets and each other. Limbs draped over mine, skin glowing in the soft morning light. I recognize each of them—Grace, Regina, and Viola—all beautiful, all ruthless, all dangerous in their own right.

I peel myself away carefully, every muscle aching like I’d been in a fight, not an orgy. I slide out of bed, tiptoeing like a thief, and shuffle into the bathroom. The hot water of the shower blasts over , and I let out a low groan as the tension in my back and thighs eases.

Sex is great. Sex is amazing. I’m not a saint. But that? That was sothing else. I like to think I have good stamina, that I could satisfy one woman thoroughly, maybe two on a good day. But three? That’s not stamina, that’s suicide.

They tag-tead . Literally. The first few hours were paradise. By the fourth, I was clinging to sanity, whispering prayers between gasps. I swear at one point, I saw God.

I towel off, wrap a robe around my waist, and drag myself to my office. As much as I’d like to lie on an ice pack and contemplate my life decisions, there’s work to be done.

Luciano is out there playing Rambo, launching explosions and retaliating with brute force. Let him. I prefer the quieter battlefield.

I settle into my chair and boot up my laptop. There she is—the daughter of one of the South Arican cartel’s high-ranking mbers. She’s in a picture with Valentino, arm-in-arm, smiling like they don’t have blood on their hands.

The satellite data says she’s in France. Smart girl. Or maybe stupid, depending on how you look at it. Separated from her security bubble, vulnerable. Perfect.

Just then, the door opens.

Antonia steps in, barefoot, wearing a silky robe that clings to her like a second skin. Her long blonde hair is damp from a recent shower, framing her face with effortless sensuality. She is beautiful, but more than that, she’s lethal. There’s sothing about the glint in her eyes—calculated, watchful—that excites and terrifies at once.

She struts forward like she owns the room and settles herself on my lap. Her finger trails down my chest to the band of my robe, toying playfully.

"Clearly, we didn’t do enough if you can still get up to work," she murmurs.

I grab her wrist gently, halting the movent. "I don’t think I can physically do more. You guys wrung dry."

She laughs—rich, confident, throaty. Her gaze drifts to my laptop screen, and the smile on her lips shifts into sothing razor-sharp.

She recognizes the target instantly.

"I can help with that," she says.

Right. I always forget. Antonia and Estela were cut from the sa cloth—assassins raised and trained in so godless corners of the world.

"She’s in France. High-level security and can Luciano let you go?"

Antonia slides off my lap, her robe swishing at her ankles. She stretches like a cat, languid and smug.

"Don’t worry about that honey."

***

Antonia POV

The windows of the villa are slightly ajar. I slink in silently, barefoot. My body double sits on the lounge chaise, engrossed in so cri drama. She doesn’t look up.

"Ti for a switch," I whisper, and she nods without a word, gathering her things.

We’ve done this a dozen tis. Whenever I need to disappear for a while, she takes my place. She’s trained, looks enough like from afar, and knows how to act like a spoiled mistress.

I slip into the room I’ve claid as my own. It’s drenched in gold, like all of Luciano’s tasteless indulgences. I sit at the vanity and begin the tedious process of concealing what last night left behind.

I examine my chest and neck—red marks, faint bruises in the shape of fingers, lips. Grace did a number on . I smirk. Didn’t know she had that in her. I understand Estela now, the female body has it’s perks.

Creams, concealer, prir. A delicate highlighter to distract from the deeper shadow at my collarbone. Lip gloss. Soft waves in my hair. When I’m done, I look flawless. Harmless.

Perfect.

I dial Luciano.

He picks up on the second ring. "Yes?"

"Miss ?" I purr.

He exhales. "Where are you?"

"Ho, of course," I say sweetly. "I was thinking, we haven’t had a proper dinner in a while. I miss those late-night drinks. Just you and ."

There’s a pause.

"I’ll send a car."

"Don’t bother. I’ll co to you."

My sweet, sweet delusional Luciano.

I snicker to myself as I end the call and walk back toward the vanity mirror. The ridiculous perfu bottle sits there like a punishnt—cut-glass crystal and wrapped in gold filigree. I spray the scent into the air and wince imdiately. Too floral. Too heavy. Too much like his father, whose cologne always clung to like a curse.

Of course Luciano would like it. He is, after all, his father’s son.

I spritz a light mist over my neck and décolletage anyway. My skin prickles as it settles, like I’m wearing a mask I can’t peel off. But it’s a useful one. Familiar. Disarming. It’s the kind of thing that clings to a man’s mory and rots it sweetly from the inside out.

A car horn purrs outside before I even reach the door.

I raise a brow.

So predictable.

I step outside, the night air catching on the hem of my thigh-slit gown. The silk trails behind like shadows, catching the streetlight in glimrs. A sleek black car—one of his personal fleet—waits at the curb, engine running, windows tinted.

He sent it anyway. With how fast this car got here, he’s spies are still nearby watching.

Which is hilarious, considering how often I’ve managed to sneak out under their noses.

The driver opens the back door for . I slide in, legs first, slow enough that if anyone is watching—and soone always is—they get the full show. I cross one leg over the other, toss my hair over my shoulder, and lean back into the leather.