QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 120: Stand off

Chapter 120 – Daphne POV

The sound of glass clinking cuts clean through the fog of smoke and muttered conversation.

It carries.

Even in a room this loud, it’s enough to pull everyone’s attention. Heads turn. Voices drop.

I follow the sound with my eyes, already knowing what I’ll see.

Luciano Castellano.

There he stands. By the fireplace. Tall. Immaculate in a three-piece suit that probably cost more than most of these men’s monthly bribe budgets. His glass raised just enough to command the room without seeming like he’s trying.

He wears confidence like a weapon. Not flashy. Not loud. Just heavy. Inescapable.

Bastard.

Thinks he’s all that. Thinks the legacy belongs to him like it’s owed.

He’s the eldest, the Castellano golden boy. Loyal. Strategic. Poisonous in a way that doesn’t leave bruises. Everything he says in public sounds noble—but I’ve seen him in private. I’ve seen the gleam in his eyes when my success threatened to outshine his titles.

So many times, I’d bring a deal to the Don—an alliance, a strategy, a contact from Monaco or Seoul or Berlin—and there Luciano would be, perfectly polite, smiling too tightly through the video call.

"It would be even better if Daphne agreed to marry into the family."

Always that. Always some strategic marriage. Always some way to package me and pass me off.

It wasn’t just about politics. It irked him—deeply—to see me out there being more than ornamental.

I remember every clenched jaw, every clipped tone. In those bloody video calls.

He was more traditional than our father, and that’s saying something.

And now he stands there like the empire should naturally fall into his hands.

Over my dead body.

---

Luciano clears his throat softly, then speaks.

"I thank you all for being here today. For honoring the legacy of our father. Our Don."

His voice is low, smooth. Not performative—controlled. That’s his gift. He knows how to say what people want to hear, even if it’s laced with venom.

"Valentino Castellano was not just the head of this family. He was the spine. The shadow. The storm we needed."

Around the room, men nod solemnly. Some bow their heads. The wives clutch pearls or handkerchiefs. It’s all very theatrical.

Luciano continues.

"He taught us strength. Discipline. Loyalty. He was not always kind, but he was just. He did what needed to be done."

A pause. The kind that invites reflection.

I stare at my glass. Boring.

"He raised us with the knowledge that weakness is a luxury, and sentiment is a weapon often turned against us. It is through him that we learned survival."

He lifts his glass higher.

"To Don Valentino Castellano. May his legacy endure."

"To Don Valentino," the room echoes.

I don’t raise my glass.

I don’t need to.

The gathering fractures soon after. People scatter in quiet ripples, leaving the drawing room in search of stronger drinks, private deals, or somewhere to rest their grief in comfort.

I don’t linger.

*

For all its rot and cruelty, I’ll give the Castellano estate this—it’s beautiful.

Italian marble underfoot. Carved archways. Sunlight slicing clean through stained glass. Somewhere outside, the fountain gurgles over marble cherubs, pretending this house doesn’t eat the people it raises.

I recline on one of the garden balconies, a mocktail in hand—citrus, sharp, ice clinking faintly. My tablet rests on my lap, glowing softly with the day’s reports. Spreadsheets. Movement in Singapore. A whisper from Marseille. Numbers that mean power. I like numbers. They don’t lie.

I hear him before I see him.

"Sister."

That voice. That perfectly schooled tone, wrapped around the word like it offends him.

I don’t look up at first. Just exhale slowly.

Of course he came.

The estate is massive. Two wings, three gardens, six floors. I made sure to stay in the opposite wing—his wing—on purpose. We didn’t have to see each other.

Which means he sought me out.

Deliberately.

"Brother," I say evenly, not moving from my very comfortable reclined position. "To what do I owe the disturbance?"

Luciano Castellano approaches like he owns the earth beneath his shoes. All sharp lines and sharper jaw. The suit’s so clean it might cut air. He walks like a man expecting deference. The world hasn’t told him no often enough.

"I apologize for not greeting you properly yesterday," he says, settling into the chair opposite mine. Not a request. An assertion.

I take a sip of my drink and smile faintly.

"Of course. You must’ve been so busy. As Father’s oldest and all."

His eyes narrow a fraction.

"I see you cut your hair," he says after a beat. "That attire too—when are you going to grow up? It’s unladylike."

Ah. There it is.

The real reason for his little visit.

My hair falls just to my shoulders—clean, neat, manageable. I’m wearing a white short-sleeved tee and tailored black slacks. Simple.

Nothing offensive.

Except to him, apparently.

"Brother," I say lightly, "it’s the 21st century. Ladies can wear pants now."

"You know that’s not what I mean," he says, voice darkening.

"With Father gone, we all have to step into our proper roles. You can’t continue acting like this—"

"Oh no," I cut in, meeting his gaze.

"We’re not doing that."

His brows lift.

I lean forward, just slightly.

"You and I have brought the same contributions to Castellano. Arguably, I’ve brought more. And yet... I wasn’t the one fucking Father’s favorite mistress before he was even in the ground."

His jaw tightens. I see the pulse beat at the edge of his temple.

Bingo.

This family seriously loves to keep it in the family. Don’t get me started on the youngest brother and his way too close relationship with mother, I shudder internally that’s a story for another day.

Luciano leans back slightly, but his fist curls on the armrest.

"I’ve organized suitable marriage candidates. A week after Father’s burial, it’s time to stop playing games—"

"I will do no such thing," I say flatly, cutting him off mid-sentence.

The air changes.

"How dare you talk back to me?" he snaps.

I set the glass down carefully. "How dare I not?"

"People who don’t fall in line," he growls, "should be eliminated."

And that’s the moment.

The man behind him steps forward. Slow. Deliberate.

He draws his gun—black, matte, gleaming in the garden light—and aims it directly at my forehead.

There’s no hesitation.

But there’s also no fear.

Julie, seated just behind me, doesn’t even stand.

He simply pulls the flap of his designer purse aside, draws out his own piece, and levels it with Luciano’s heart in a single, fluid motion.

The stand-off settles like dust. freeweɓnovel.cѳm

No one breathes.

"If they both shoot," I murmur, gaze steady on Luciano’s face, "I wonder which one of us drops first."

I smile.

Because this?

This is what I love.This world, broken and brutal and soaked in blood—it suits me.

The adrenaline. The chaos. The threat.

It’s almost—almost—as satisfying as being wrapped in the arms of my beloved.

"You forget something, brother," I say softly, voice like velvet over steel.

"You are not the Don."

I lift my glass again and take a sip.

"The Don is dead. Castellano has no ruler."

He doesn’t blink.

"I am not obligated to listen to you," I continue.

"Come speak to me again when you sit on the throne... if you ever do."

I turn back to my tablet, flicking to the next page of reports.

Dismissed.

Luciano stands slowly. His jaw is clenched so tightly I wonder if he’ll crack a molar. He holds my gaze one second too long, then turns sharply and stalks off, footsteps heavy on the stone.

Julie watches him go.

Then sighs.

"And I thought my family had issues."

He places his gun neatly back into his purse.

"Tell me about it," I mutter, and then snicker.