QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 117: Survive

Chapter 117 –

Daphne POV

I blink.

Gunshots explode in the air like thundercracks, so close they might as well be inside the car.

What the fuck?!!

My instincts kick in before the fear does. I duck, heart hammering, as bullets *ping* against the reinforced windows. It’s an armored vehicle, thank god, but I don’t trust it to hold forever—not with this kind of firepower.

The tires scream. The car swerves violently, throwing me against the side door. My shoulder cracks into the panel, pain blooming instantly, but I scramble low, practically kissing the floor. I fumble around, searching the dark seams of the vehicle until my fingers catch on something cold—metal.

A hidden compartment.

Jackpot.

I yank it open and find two handguns, a spare clip, and—sweet mercy—a flash grenade.

"Someone planned ahead," I mutter, my breath hitching.

Another shot. Then a *boom*. The car jerks sharply. I hear the driver curse—then nothing. A heartbeat later, the whole vehicle flips.

Gravity rips me sideways.

Glass shatters. Metal groans. My vision turns into a tumble of color and pain.

Then... silence.

Distant sirens. Smoke.

The world tips. My ears ring. I cough, tasting blood.

"Shit..."

I crawl out through a spiderwebbed window, jagged glass biting into my palm as I pull myself free. My knees hit the asphalt with a thud. The smell of oil and burning rubber fills the air.

The driver’s slumped forward, unmoving. Blood runs down the steering wheel. I don’t even check for a pulse—I know.

And then—

Engines. Black cars.

Sleek. Silent. Lethal.

They slide up like vultures circling meat.

I grab the guns I salvaged and roll behind the wrecked chassis, heart pounding like a war drum.

They don’t hesitate.

I grab the guns I salvaged and roll behind the wrecked chassis, heart pounding like a war drum.

They don’t hesitate.

The shooting starts again, and I return fire, ducking, rolling, aiming like muscle memory’s the only thing keeping me alive. One shot to the knee. One to the chest. One through the windshield.

Bodies fall.

But more keep coming.

I’m lucky. So fucking lucky the car flipped near a bridge—an old one, partially under construction. I spot the edge through the smoke, just past the barricades.

My feet burn. That’s when I realize—I’m fucking barefoot.

Of course I am.

I sprint across broken asphalt, glass slicing into my soles with every step. Pain flares, but adrenaline drowns it out. The bridge looms closer, half-shrouded in mist and shadow. Behind me, engines rev. Shouts in a language I don’t recognize. Boots on pavement. Bullets whistle past, some so close I swear I feel them kiss my skin.

I don’t look back.

I just run.

One wrong step and I skid against the railing. The drop is steep—no guarantee of survival. But staying means certain death.

So I jump. Into the water, I don’t even know how deep it is, it’s literally a leap of faith.

Wind screams past me.

For a second, time slows. The night air is sharp, my lungs full of smoke and fear. Then—

The water hits like concrete. Ice-cold. Brutal. It knocks the breath out of me, slams into my chest, spins me in the dark. I can’t tell which way is up.

My dress or shirt—whatever flimsy thing I’m dressed in—is a net around my limbs.

I fight.

Hands claw at the surface. My lungs burn. My vision sparks.

Finally, I break through.

I gasp.

The sky above is dark, foggy. No stars. No moon. No sign of the gunmen yet.

I start swimming—toward anything, everything, nothing at all. Just away from the men in black wanting to kill me.

***

Well, the system said it’s a broken world.

And guess what?

It’s a fucking broken world.

I march barefoot into the Castellano estate—soaked, shivering, furious. My hair drips, my dress clings, and my feet are raw from glass and gravel. I don’t stop. The servants stare, mouths half-open. None of them dare speak.

They shouldn’t. I’m not in the mood.

This world has only the bare bones of a plot:

1. Mafia world.

2. A male protagonist rises to become Don.

3. He gets a harem. Three women, minimum.

What a joke.

I walk through the marble halls like a ghost wearing blood and saltwater. This is the Castellano Syndicate, and the man in charge—the current Don—is Valentino Castellano. freewebnoveℓ.com

My father.

According to this body’s memories, I have four siblings: three brothers, one sister. A real mafia family tree, thick with testosterone and secrecy. The kind of family that eats its own before breakfast.

And the world’s already creaking at the seams.

Soon, Valentino will be assassinated. That’s the catalyst. That’s when the chaos begins.

The protagonist candidates? Yes candidates.

My older brother.

My cousin.

And the bastard son no one talks about until it’s convenient.

And Daphne Valentino? Oh she dies or is sold off for the benefit of the family, hell fucking no. Luckily I’m just 17, not time for that. Yet.

I keep walking, eyes forward, ignoring the scorch of every step. My destination is clear—my father’s office.

I slam the door open with both hands.

The office is just as dramatic as expected—dark wood, leather, the faint scent of cigar smoke and blood money. And sitting behind the desk, in all his mafia cliché glory:

Valentino Castellano.

If you’re imagining a stereotypical Don—slicked-back silver hair, tailored black suit, gold rings heavy on his fingers, expression like he owns the world?

That’s exactly what he looks like.

He glances up lazily from his glass of whisky, not even fazed by the door nearly flying off its hinges.

"My little cupcake," he drawls, lips curling in a smirk, "what happened to you?"

His voice is warm, almost affectionate—like I didn’t just walk in looking like a drowned rat who crawled out of a war zone. Like I’m still a five-year-old in curls and a frilly dress, playing tea party next to a corpse he’d just ordered shot.

Misogynistic bastard. Overprotective tyrant. Mafia king. My father.

To Daphne, he’s... complicated.

He spoils her with diamond necklaces and private jets, but God forbid she gives an opinion on syndicate politics. He calls her "angel" with the same mouth that orders a hit on her favorite stylist because "he looked at you funny."

I raise my chin, let my lip tremble—just enough to sell the part.

"I barely survived," I say breathlessly. "I was shot at."

That gets his attention.

He sets his drink down and stands, slowly, as if weighing whether to call a doctor or a cleaner first. His eyes narrow, scanning me from head to toe. The damp clothes. The bruises. The bare feet. The blood.

His jaw ticks.

"Who?" he asks, voice low, dangerous.

I blink at him with wide, doe eyes, keeping my tone laced with wounded pride.

"I don’t know. Black cars. Military-grade weapons. The driver’s dead. I had to crawl out of the wreck myself."

That part’s not even an exaggeration.

Valentino’s fist clenches, and his voice sharpens into ice.

"You were targeted. On Castellano turf."

He exhales slowly.

"Somebody thinks I’m getting soft."

Well... he is.

Give it a year—maybe two—and he’ll be assassinated. A bullet to the back, a blade to the neck, or a cigar that never lights again. And when he goes, he’ll take the stability of one of the biggest criminal organizations in the world down with him.

Civil war.

Blood.

Chaos.

And me? I plan to be nowhere fucking near it.

"I can’t do this, Daddy," I whisper, voice trembling, soft and sweet like sugared poison. "I don’t feel safe."

He scowls instantly.

His hand curls around his glass again, tighter. Rage flickers in his eyes—not at me, never at me—but at the world that dared to make me afraid.

"I want to leave," I add, piling on the drama with all the desperation of a spoiled girl who’s had just one too many bad days.

His frown deepens.

"Don’t worry about it. I’ll have their heads gift-wrapped and brought to you by morning."

Just like that. Casual murder, like flowers after a bad date.

He’s brushing me off, focused more on retribution than the real threat—the unraveling plot around him.

Fine. If he won’t listen to logic...

I summon the full force of my acting skills. ’Thank you, Yuxi, my beloved.’

I drop to my knees. Crawl over like the tragic heroine of a mob soap opera.

And I sob into his thigh.

"Just for a while, Daddy," I say, voice breaking beautifully. "I just need to breathe. To feel safe. Please—just a little time away from all this."

My tears soak through his perfectly tailored pants.

The silence stretches.

Then—

He sighs.

"Fine," he mutters, reaching down to stroke my hair like I’m still five and clueless.

"Just a few days. You’ll take an escort. No arguments."

I light up like he just promised me the moon.

"Thank you, Daddy! You’re the best!" I squeal, throwing my arms around him like a grateful little doll.