QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL) Chapter 182: Painful is the ring

182 – Daphne POV

Well.

This is so weird creepy shit.

The entire hall is bathed in shadows, lit only by low-hanging iron chandeliers. The sll of old wood, cold stone, and cigar smoke lingers in the air. Everyone around —hundreds of Castellano elites—is dressed in black suits, polished shoes, solemn faces like this is a funeral, not a crowning.

I cross one leg over the other, arms folded loosely, watching from my seat at the side of the chamber. Front row, of course. I wouldn’t miss this for anything.

And there at the center—Raffaele.

Standing in front of a carved marble dais where the five ancient elders sit like withered statues.

He holds a ceremonial dagger—curved, gilded, definitely unhygienic, and probably a couple centuries old. No way anyone’s sanitized that thing. The man looks calm on the outside, but I can tell his grip is just a little too tight.

He draws the blade down his palm in one clean slice.

Blood wells instantly.

On the plane ride here, I was already thinking about this mont. The thing I’ve worked toward since I landed in this broken world: pushing Raffaele to the male lead role. And here it is.

He’s got his harem.

He’s got power.

He’s taking the throne.

Mission complete.

The sky outside the plane window looked better. Usually it’s glitched—fractures like cracked glass running through the air, broken code. But this morning, as we flew in? The sky looked normal. Blue. A few clouds. Still a little flicker here and there, but much more stable.

I felt it. The weight I’ve been carrying all this ti... it’s lifting.

I can finally, finally relax.

And now... a scroll?

Seriously? That’s an actual scroll one of the elders just unrolled. I blink as Raffaele presses his bloody palm onto the parchnt. There’s a red stain now spreading across ancient symbols and faded ink.

No need for all this blood. A simple finger prick would’ve done the job, but no—they like theatrics.

I glance sideways—and catch the eyes of one of Luciano’s old supporters. The sa crusty bastard who’d once cornered in a hall and sneered that I needed to stay away from "n’s matters," that it was unbecoming for a woman to ddle in succession gas.

I smirk.

He looks away.

That’s right.

Keep your head down now.

They expect to fight for more power or get revenge now that Raffaele’s at the top—but nope. Joke’s on them. I’m going on another vacation.

Not that they know that, let on their toes.

Finally—Raffaele is handed a goblet. Silver. Ornate. Heavy with wine.

I shudder at the information—just two generations ago, they still used real blood for this part. It killed one Don—poor bastard caught so bloodborne disease and died within a week. Shortest reign ever.

That little tradition died with him, thankfully.

Now it’s wine. Dark red. Symbolic enough.

Raffaele raises the cup—steady hand, not a tremor—and drinks.

The entire hall seems to hold its breath.

A deep, collective silence.

One knee sinks to the marble floor, precise and composed.

In front of him, an elder steps forward and reverently unveils a black velvet cushion. And on it—

The ring.

Silver. Twisted.

The snake coils on itself in a tight spiral, every scale etched with disturbing, life-like detail. The head is raised, fangs bared—not just for show.

It bites. Literally. The fangs will ding into your skin for the rest of your life since apparently it only cos off on your corpse.

I’ve heard the stories. Everyone has.

The fangs pierce the skin. The ring never truly cos off. A thousand Dons have bled under it. Supposedly cursed, forged with the souls of the damned—rumors say the first Don made a deal with the devil himself for power, and this monstrosity was the price.

Looking at it now? I believe it.

I actually shiver.

Why would anyone willingly wear sothing like that?

And yet... that ring has crowned six generations before this one. It’s the symbol of Castellano. The reason thousands have died. The reason we’re even here.

One of the elders clears his throat and speaks:

"As decreed by the Rite of Dominion—Raffaele Castellano is hereby declared the Seventh Generation Don of the Castellano Empire."

The words fall like an executioner’s blade.

Raffaele’s expression doesn’t shift.

He calmly reaches for the ring—bare index finger outstretched.

A pause.

He hesitates. A flicker, barely there.

Then he slides the ring onto his index finger.

Even from my seat, I can see it—

The snake’s fangs bite into his skin. No illusion. No trick. A sharp press of blood rises at the edge.

Raffaele doesn’t flinch.

Instead, he stands.

Tall. Straight-backed. Shoulders squared.

And then—

"I am the serpent."

"I coil in shadow."

"I strike without rcy."

"I bind my fate to this family until death."

His voice echoes through the marble hall—cold, solemn, absolute.

All around , the crowd bows as one.

Heads lowered in reverence.

Knees bent before the new Don.

I sigh internally.

Bind fate to this family? Yeah... no thanks. Dangerous words, those.

I’m not risking reincarnation into this snake pit of a family, thank you very much.

I remain still—head inclined just enough to pass as respectful.

***

Raffaele POV

A soft knock echoes against the door.

Before I can say anything, it opens.

Of course. Only one person acts like that.

Daphne strolls in—gray slacks, black button-down, sleeves casually rolled. The very image of cool indifference.

And strangely enough, the only person who still makes feel like a human being.

Not a Don.

Not an emperor behind the snake’s ring.

Just... .

Even the won—the difference is subtle, but there’s distance now. Grace, Regina, even Antonia. They tread a little lighter. Watch their words more carefully. No one says it out loud, but I can feel it.

Daphne though?

Sa old Daphne.

She walks in without missing a beat. Sinks lazily into one of the visitor chairs, legs crossed.

"How’s it going, Don?" she says with a grin, dragging the title out like a joke.

I snort. "It’s been a month."

She eyes up and down. "And yet you look like you’ve aged a couple years already. Are those gray hairs I’m seeing, Goldilocks?"

I lean back in my chair, rubbing at my face. She’s not wrong.

"I wouldn’t be surprised," I mutter. "Feels like ten years."

"Well, you know what they say... heavy is the ring or sothing." She gestures toward my right hand.

I glance down.

The damn ring. The snake’s fangs still biting deep. The scabs are forming, jagged and dark around the band.

The pain is constant—dull, throbbing. Like a heartbeat beneath the skin.

They told I’d get used to it. That eventually my flesh would adapt, grow around it. Apparently they had to cut the last Don’s finger off when he passed.

Charming.

"More like painful is the ring," I mutter.

Daphne laughs, easy and unbothered.

"Well, I’d love to stay and play therapist," she says, rising to her feet, "but Estela and I are heading out soon."

I blink. "You just got back two days ago."

She only shrugs. "Ti to ride the bike without training wheels. You don’t need anymore."

I exhale, long and tired. She’s probably right...

But still.

She walks toward the door.

"If it gets too much," she says, glancing back, "you know how to reach ."

I hesitate. "Is that as my partner... or my best friend?"

She pauses. Smirks. Her eyes gleam with sothing warm.

"The latter," she says.

And just like that—she’s gone.

I lean back in the chair, staring up at the ceiling.

It’s not all bad.

Not at all.

At least I know this much—

I’ve got one very reliable best friend.