QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 130: Going to pay

Chapter 130

Daphne POV

The sound of gunfire echoes like thunder in the warehouse.

I don’t flinch. I keep moving. Duck, aim, shoot.

The air stinks of metal and smoke. The staccato bursts of semi-automatics rattle through the rafters. Men scream. Glass shatters. Someone’s radio cuts out with a burst of static.

Bodies drop like flies.

Another one lunges from behind a crate. I whirl, squeeze the trigger. He falls mid-step, dead before he hits the floor.

I reload in three seconds flat. Clip. Slide. Ready.

Some asshole leaked Raffaele’s location.

Word on the street was vague, but clear enough: a Castellano without backup, spotted in the outskirts.

To the desperate dogs trying to make a name for themselves, it was an open invitation.

To me? It was a death warrant I had no intention of letting be fulfilled.

Raffaele is smart, careful. He never travels alone. But someone, somewhere, knew just enough about our movements to make this ambush possible.

And now, everyone from cartel rats to freelance mercenaries are trying to get their five seconds of glory by painting Castellano blood across warehouse walls.

Over my dead body.

A bullet flies past my ear. I pivot, return fire. Two more fall.

They’re not trained. Just hungry.

That makes them dangerous.

The warehouse is vast—steel walls, stacked crates, rusted catwalks. It smells like dust, gunpowder, and old oil. I slip behind a shipping container, gesture to the two Castellano men on my six. One nods. The other is bleeding from the arm but still upright.

I sweep the next row.

More gunfire.

Another scream.

Then I hear it—a short burst of Castellano code, whistled. Raffaele. He’s close.

I move fast, sliding between crates, ducking under scaffolding, boots echoing against the concrete.

A man comes at me with a knife.

Too close.

I grab his wrist, twist, break. The blade clatters. He tries to scream, but my elbow hits his throat before he can.

He drops.

I keep going.

I find Raffaele behind an overturned metal table, firing carefully into a group trying to flank us from the loading dock.

"Lovely day," I say, dropping beside him.

He doesn’t even look surprised.

"Brought a bouquet?"

"A few bullets instead. Thought it more appropriate."

We cover each other, switching between shooting and reloading like a choreographed dance.

A grenade clatters nearby.

"Down!"

We dive behind a stack of pallets. It explodes, ripping into the floor where we just were. Wood and concrete splinter upward in a roar.

"They’re better armed than I expected," he mutters.

"They’re not here to scare you. They’re here to bury you."

He looks at me. "Think you can get us out?"

I smirk, pull two smoke grenades from my belt.

" I’m insulted you had to ask."

I pull the pins and throw them hard.

Smoke blooms like poison clouds.

And then—chaos.

Through the haze, I move like a shadow. I hear shouting, confused gunfire. Someone screams about backup. I shoot two silhouettes in the mist, push Raffaele forward.

"Out the side door," I bark into my comms. "Team C, light the exit."

A spotlight flashes. An escape route.

We bolt.

The side corridor smells like mold and gasoline. Another two men block our path. I shoot one in the leg, Raffaele takes out the other.

We burst through the door into the cold night air, breathing hard, backs slick with sweat.

A van screeches to a stop.

We get in.

I yank off my suit jacket the second the doors slide shut, tossing it aside. The fabric’s soaked in sweat and blood. Not mine, thankfully, but still—it’s been a hell of a 24 hours.

My hair is sticking to my neck. There’s gunpowder residue on my gloves. My boots are slick from someone else’s blood.

"I thought you had your men on lock," I snap, glaring at Raffaele as the van jerks forward.

He wipes the blood from his cheek with the back of his sleeve, eyes stormy.

"I did. I thought I did."

"So what the fuck was that?" I ask, still panting.

Raffaele doesn’t answer immediately. He pulls a flask from the inside of his torn jacket, takes a long swig, then holds it out to me. I wave it off.

"We had a leak," he says.

"No shit."

"I know who it is."

That quiet fury in his voice? It’s rarer than mine. Raffaele’s usually calm. Detached. Dangerous in a cold, surgical way. But right now, he looks like he wants to rip someone apart with his bare hands.

---

It takes thirty minutes.

Vincenzo is dragged in by two of Raffaele’s men, bruised and struggling, bound with zip ties and spitting curses in rapid Italian.

We’re in a backroom of one of the Castellano-owned warehouses. No cameras. No witnesses. Just concrete walls and steel hooks.

Vincenzo glares at Raffaele like he’s the traitor. The nerve.

"You sold us out," Raffaele says, voice low.

Vincenzo laughs. His nose is bleeding. One eye’s swelling. "Prove it."

"We don’t have to," I say, stepping forward.

"But you’re going to talk anyway."

He spits at the floor near my shoes. "You won’t do shit."

I sigh and roll up my sleeves.

Julie lays out a small velvet case beside me. When I open it, there are tools. Simple, precise, and terrifying. He knows what they mean.

"Wait," Raffaele says. "Are you sure you want to—"

"Do you want the name or not?" I ask, already pulling on the gloves.

He nods.

I turn back to Vincenzo.

"This could be fast," I say.

"Or it could be biblical."

He doesn’t answer.

I choose the pliers first. Start with a finger.

He screams. Not the theatrical kind. The kind that rips out of you because your nerves can’t handle the pain.

"Talk."

He spits blood.

Another finger.

"Talk."

"You’re insane," he gasps.

"You have no idea."

It takes ten more minutes. He sobs. He begs. And finally, he breaks.

"Luciano," he croaks.

"He paid me. He said it was just to scare him. I didn’t know they wanted to kill him."

I believe him. Mostly. But that doesn’t mean I’ll forgive him.

I step back. Bloody gloves, sweat down my back, pulse still raging.

Raffaele stands silent.

Julie grabs a rag and hands it to me. I wipe the worst of the blood from my arms.

"What do we do with him?" one of Raffaele’s men asks.

I look at Raffaele. This is his call.

"Tie him to the chair," he says after a moment. "And leave him."

"Alive?"

Raffaele nods. "Let Luciano know we found his rat. And that we’re not done."

That’s how it should be.

I’ve wasted two whole days in blood and bullets when I should’ve been with my beloved. But nooo—Luciano just had to make it personal.

I turn to one of the men, voice cold.

"Pack up the fingers."

He nods without hesitation.

"My brother needs a gift," I add, expression unchanging. "Something thoughtful."

The blood hasn’t dried yet. Good.

As the men move, I lean back, brushing the slick hair from my forehead. I’m tired. My boots are soaked. My hands still sting from the work.

And yet—I smile.

Because payback?

Payback’s coming.

And I swear on my beloved’s soul... Luciano is going to pay.