QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 122: My beloved

Chapter 122 – Daphne POV

I watch sleek black car after black car pull away from the cathedral in waves—like waves at a wake, each carrying whispers, fake condolences, and at least three plots for power.

This is, by far, the most dramatic funeral I’ve ever been to.

Not that I’ve attended many.

But still.

The Castellanos, in all their operatic glory, have managed to turn grief into theater.

Finally, the main procession thins. Close relatives have had their moments. One by one, the true family—bloodline only—go in for what tradition dictates is their last private moment with the Don.

A whisper goodbye, an unspoken plea, a final threat. The usual.

I watch from my place beneath the arch, letting each of them pass.

The outer circle goes first—politicians, allies, ancient family friends who still send Christmas cigars from prison. Then the inner circle: close relatives, minor branches of the family, people who pretended they mattered to Valentino in life.

And finally, it’s time for the actual family.

Luciano goes first, of course. Regal. Controlled. The favorite son mourning the king.

Bastard.

Renzo staggers in after, clearly still drunk. Tommaso is a ghost, slipping in and out with no expression at all. Even Raffaele walks in, slow and steady, his silence somehow louder than anyone else’s words.

And then it’s my turn.

No one calls for me. No one gestures.

But I go in anyway.

The cathedral is quiet now. Vast and hollow. The air still carries incense, smoke, and the faintest trace of rotting flowers. Candles line the altar, their flames flickering in the dusty light streaming through stained-glass saints. The coffin sits at the center, gleaming like an offering.

Valentino Castellano.

Don. Kingpin. Tyrant.

He lies inside like some twisted relic of empire—still and untouchable.

I look at the box.

Nothing stirs in me.

Not grief. Not anger. Not regret.

He was many things. A king in a crumbling kingdom. A monster in a nice suit.

The least he could have been was a nice family man, maybe I would have had some sorrow then.

I walk past the altar and sit in the second row of pews. I fold my hands, let my head dip slightly. Not in prayer. Just enough for whoever might be watching on some hidden camera to think I’m showing respect.

Never know who’s watching.

I sit there long enough to make it look convincing. Long enough to pretend this is closure.

And then I move to stand.

That’s when I hear it.

A soft click. A whisper of movement. Too fast, too smooth.

I turn—and she’s already there.

A nun.

Or at least... dressed as one.

Her robes billow slightly from her movement, the black cloth swirling like a shadow cut loose from the altar.

And in the blink of a breath—

She moves.

Steel flashes.

She moves.

Steel flashes.

I jerk to the side as her blade slices the air beside my head. It slams into the wooden pew with a crack, the tip burying deep into the lacquered grain inches from my cheek.

The echo of the impact ricochets through the church.

Splinters fall like snow.

I freeze—not from fear.

I’ve survived worse.

But because of her face.

She’s close now. The veil on her habit shifts as she pants from the exertion, and I see her clearly.

It’s her.

Jiang Yuxi. Evelyn.

The same exact beautiful face but once again, the only thing different is the race and ethnicity.

She’s olive-skinned, lips drawn tight, eyes wide with fury—but behind the hate, behind the anger, is a structure I know better than my own.

The same cheekbones I used to kiss. The same mouth that used to whisper to me in the dark. The same eyes that looked at me like I was her beginning and end.

Now looking at me like I’m her target.

"Sister," I murmur, voice low and dry, "I don’t think this is a polite way to speak to a grieving daughter."

She doesn’t respond.

She just grabs my veil, rips it off, and throws it aside.

Then presses the blade to my throat.

Hard.

I feel the edge dig in, just enough to draw a bead of blood.

She stares at me with a kind of fury I’ve only ever seen in women who’ve lost everything.

Her chest rises and falls fast. Her hands are steady, though. Trained.

"You think I won’t do it?" she asks. Her voice is low, husky, slightly accented—Spanish, maybe. Somewhere South European. I think I have a new fetish.

I study her, unblinking.

"I don’t doubt you know how," I say. My voice is calm, almost soft.

"I just wonder why. Because if my brothers wanted me dead, they wouldn’t have hired a woman. So I assume this is personal."

Her eyes narrow.

"You Castellanos should all die," she spits, fury rising. "Every single one."

"So it’s a bloodline thing," I murmur. "Fair. We’re not exactly a family of saints."

She breathes harder now, the knife pressing just a little deeper. I feel the bite of it. A bead of blood. Cold air against my skin.

"You want to slit my throat?" I say, voice almost gentle. "Do it now. Because I don’t think you ever will after this chance."

She flinches—but doesn’t pull away.

"Do it," I whisper.

"And you’ll get hunted down like a dog. But hey—at least you’ll have killed one Castellano."

For a moment, she doesn’t move. The blade remains at my throat, close enough that I can feel the delicate pulse of blood swelling beneath the skin, held back only by the faintest grace.

But her hand... it trembles now.

Not with fear, but with conflict.

I wonder, does she feel it too? That strange pull, deep in her bones. Something old. Something impossible. Does some part of her recognize me the way I recognize her?

Her lips are parted slightly, like she wants to say something. But nothing comes.

Just that silence between us, thick as the stained-glass shadows on the floor.

Then—

The sound of the cathedral doors groaning open cuts clean through the moment.

She startles, not with panic, but with cold calculation. The spell between us fractures. She jerks the blade back and slips away from me, vanishing behind the altar and into one of the far side wings like she was never there.

I don’t move right away. My body still feels electric with tension, but I let my breathing slow. Carefully, I reach down and pick up the black lace veil she tore off me. My fingers are steady as I shake it out and drape it back over my head.

I sit tall again just as footsteps approach, echoing gently across the marble.

The priest—old, soft-spoken, and visibly uncomfortable in a place that feels more haunted than holy—stops when he sees me seated there alone.

"I apologize," he says gently, adjusting his stole as he steps closer, "but I’ve been called to begin the final preparations for the burial procession."

He starts to explain, but I cut in smoothly.

"It’s okay, Father," I say, reaching out and gently clasping his hands in mine.

I meet his eyes, gaze glassy beneath the veil. It’s not difficult to summon a little tremble in my voice.

"The sister who remained behind... she said some comforting things. I needed it. I’m..." I pause, looking down briefly. "Grief-stricken, but it’s time to let him rest now."

His expression softens instantly. He gives my hands a gentle squeeze.

"May peace find you, child." fгeewebnovёl.com

I nod, standing slowly, gathering my composure like a shawl. My steps are measured as I walk past the altar, toward the side exit where the others once stood.

"I should take my leave," I murmur, not turning back. "So you can prepare the body."

And just like that, I leave the hall behind.