QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 125: Rite of dominion

Chapter 125 – Daphne POV

The chandelier catches the amber evening light like a fistful of shattered stars, refracting gold onto the polished floor, the silverware, the glinting buttons on starched uniforms.

The Castellano dining hall is quiet—too quiet.

Breaths are held, throats tight, every twitch of movement broadcast like a scream.

It’s funny. With all this money, all this power, you’d think the room would feel warm.

But it’s cold. So cold.

The air is carved from tension, thick with perfume, sweat, fear, and the scent of veal in cream sauce cooling on untouched plates.

This is supposed to be dinner.

Instead, it feels like an execution.

-

The room is a grand chamber of intimidation. The walls are adorned with oil paintings of Castellano ancestors glaring down like gods half-forgotten and fully feared. Their eyes follow you, even in death. Especially in death.

Long tables run parallel beneath the chandeliers, full of people dressed in mourning black and subtle silk. Men in designer suits, women in lace and widow veils, power players pretending to grieve while plotting their rise.

At the center, elevated on a slightly raised circular dais, sits a round table.

At that table?

The Five.

Five men, older than the bones buried in our family crypt. They sit straight-backed in carved oak chairs, their hands folded, their eyes sharp. Skin like parchment, voices like smoke.

If the wind blew the wrong way, I’m fairly sure three of them would drop dead.

And yet—these are the most powerful men in the Castellano family. No one knows how they are chosen, they just are the judges and overseers, they only show up twice when on leader dies and it’s time, or in extreme cases if the chosen leader is useless and not doing a good job.

Honestly I like the checks and balances, definitely needed, I heard one Don was insane and tried to quote ’rule the world’, apparently he was dealt with so silently he disappeared like a ghost...scary stuff.

---

One of them clears his throat. The smallest sound, and the room goes even quieter.

Marcello, the eldest, leans forward. His suit is black as ink, and his voice comes out cracked but commanding.

"We are here to uphold the Rite of Dominion."

The sentence hits like a slap across the room.

No one moves.

Not even the staff.

Marcello continues, his words slow, deliberate.

"As it has been for generations, so it shall be again. The Don is gone. The legacy remains."

"Unclaimed," says Vitale I think, eyes gleaming under thin lids.

"Unconquered."

"The Castellano name demands a leader," says the third, Silvestri, who hasn’t blinked since he sat down.

"Not by birth. Not by wish. By proof."

There’s a beat. A pause made of expectation and dread.

Then the fourth, Emilio, adds, "Proof through dominion."

They begin to list the rules.

One by one.

The way executioners name the sins before the blade falls.

"Finances," Marcello says.

"He who controls the money, controls the blood."

"Enemies," Vitale hisses.

"How you handle them, how they bleed, how they disappear, decade after decade it should be reinforced Castellano is not one to dare."

"Loyalty," says Silvestri.

"From the capos, from the lieutenants, from the ghosts, even to the servants Castellano is not just it’s leader, it’s the people."

"The Big Three," Don Emilio declares.

"Control of arms, of finance, and of alliance. Without two of the three, you will not survive."

The final judge, Don Erri, speaks at last. His voice is soft. Almost kind. That’s how you know it’s the most dangerous.

"Problem solving," he says. "Not just who strikes. But who rebuilds. Who endures."

Their voices layer atop one another like a chant, low and thick.

"No successor has been named. No vote has been cast. No claim has been earned."

"And so," Marcello says again, "it begins."

--

He leans back.

Vitale lifts a gnarled hand.

"The next generation is off limits."

There are murmurs in the room. He silences them with one sharp glance.

"Children are not weapons. The sins of the father do not pass to the sons and daughters. Break this rule..." his voice drops lower, "...and you die."

"Swiftly," Silvestri echoes.

Emilio rests his ring-heavy hand on the table. "And should outsiders strike during the Rite—and they will—"

"They always do," Don Erri murmurs.

"—then all Castellanos, regardless of faction, will unite against the threat."

"This is our weakest hour," Marcello says. "Enemies will see cracks. They will come for us."

"Let them," Vitale snaps.

"We’ll drown them in blood."

Then comes the final blow.

Don Silvestri lifts his wine glass, still untouched, and rasps:

"The last one standing takes the throne."

The air stills.

The words echo. Not loud. Not shouted.

But final.

"The Rite has begun," Marcello says, rising slowly.

And the others follow.

As they leave the dais, the room shifts.

Like an invisible weight is lifted—but no one dares breathe easier.

The five old men—the only ones in this family still addressed with "Don" before their names—move with the kind of authority that silences generations. Their chairs scrape gently against the polished floor, and even that sound makes people flinch.

Scary group of old men.

Each one looks like he might evaporate if the wind hit wrong—but the power they carry clings to the air like thick incense. Ritual, tradition, terror.

And now, their word has been made law.

The Rite of Dominion has officially begun.

Conversations resume—shaky, strained.

People sip their wine too fast. Others lean in to whisper behind manicured hands. The servers glide around the room like trained shadows.

Yeah.

That was dramatic.

I tilt my head slightly, scanning the room like I’m just idly observing—but every flick of my gaze is calculated.

Luciano is surrounded.

Several capos, distant cousins, and even two former business partners crowd his corner like bees to a hive. All smiles. All venom.

He sits tall, nodding like a benevolent monarch receiving tribute.

Of course he’s smug.

Valentino Jr. is seated further down—brooding, jaw tense. His own little collection of loyalists surrounds him, mostly younger men from our generation, the types drawn to chaos dressed in confidence. They laugh too loudly. Drink too fast.

I catch his glare fixed on Luciano.

Good. Let them cannibalize each other.

And Raffaele?

He’s doing what I expected him to do—what I was hoping he’d do.

He’s quietly excusing himself.

No attention. No drama. Just slipping away like smoke into the edge of the room.

Honestly, I think I’ll do the same.

I take a step toward the corridor leading to the terrace, fingers adjusting the cuff of my suit jacket. The heels of my fancy leather shoes click softly against the marble.

Almost free—

"Daphne."

My name cuts through the murmurs like a whip crack.

I know that voice.

Damn it.

I exhale slowly, turn, and see her.

Fiorella Castellano.

The eldest daughter. The one I’ve successfully avoided for three whole days.

"Sister," I say, adjusting my stance. I push my suit jacket back slightly, casually sliding my hands into my pockets.

Neutral. Guarded. Unbothered.

Her gaze doesn’t waver.

"A word," she says simply, already turning on her heel.

Not a request.

A command.

I stare at her back as she walks away, expecting me to follow. I humor her since I was leaving anyway.