QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 133: The overlooked

Chapter 133

Daphne POV

My people have fully relocated to the town.

I don’t feel naked anymore.

At first, I kept the numbers small, didn’t want to draw attention. Castellano blood is too paranoid for grand movements—but now, they’ve blended in. Seamlessly. Quietly.

Even the staff inside the estate.

Every corridor, every wine cellar, every overly polished marble stair—there are eyes. My eyes.

It’s mostly women.

Sure, I still have my usual cadre of muscle—the big men with scars and knuckles like bricks—but one thing my dear relatives have always done well is underestimate women. It’s practically a Castellano tradition.

That works beautifully for me.

They think women don’t matter in war.

That mistake makes things... so much easier.

Every bar, every boutique, every restaurant kitchen and cleaning staff—mine.

Even the maids in their precious hotels, the girls brushing past their ears with trays of wine—mine.

Information flows like blood now. I know who’s sleeping with who. Who’s sending shipments. Who’s paying off who. I see it all.

Luciano, for instance, is still furious about my little explosion. Understandably. The losses were massive.

Apparently, he’s organizing a memorial today.

For the "lives lost."

Please.

I feel no remorse. They weren’t civilians. They knew what game they were in. When you play in the dark, you don’t get to cry about the monsters.

I don’t regret it. Not one bit.

Today, however, I have my own performance to put on.

I slide my tablet aside in the car and check the mirror. Hair flawless. Suit ironed to silent intimidation. The tailored lapel pin glints against my collar like a promise.

It’s a ribbon-cutting ceremony.

A public event hosted under one of my charity foundations.

We’re opening a new shelter for women who have survived abuse—though that’s the official language.

In reality, it’s a haven for all kinds of survivors. Women, yes.

I can’t say all that outright—not in this town, not under the eyes of conservative vultures who still think fear equals tradition.

But everyone who needs to know... knows.

The camera flashes will start soon.

Time to smile.

*

I walk around the center, smiling for the cameras, shaking hands, posing beside plaques and ribbon-ends. The building is massive—half shelter, half hostel—with warm lights and welcoming halls. It’s everything I planned it to be. A shield, a sanctuary. A statement.

Once the speeches are done and the cameras start packing up, I’m about to slip away when Julie approaches with a discreet whisper.

"There’s someone who wants to meet with you. She asked for privacy."

I arch a brow. How curious.

"Very," he replies, already texting instructions to our team.

"I’ll take it in the car."

He nods.

Ten minutes later, I settle into the backseat of my bulletproof, black-tinted car, cross one leg over the other, and scroll idly through a summary of upcoming press coverage.

Then the door opens.

A woman steps in—hood up, mask on, posture defensive. She slips into the seat across from me like she’s expecting it to be booby-trapped.

"Hello," I say, putting on my kindest voice. Polished, professional, just a hint of velvet.

"Hi," she murmurs, voice small, cautious. She doesn’t elaborate. She doesn’t move.

That’s fine. I’m patient. I keep scrolling, leaning back like I’ve got nowhere to be.

Minutes tick by.

Then—softly—she speaks.

"I’ve heard rumors."

My eyes stay on the screen.

"What kind of rumors?"

"Protection. In exchange for information... and revenge."

Now that gets my attention.

I look up.

She’s tense. Fists clenched in her lap like she’s holding something back, barely keeping it together.

"Maybe," I say, voice lowering just a notch. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, gaze steady.

"What do you have for me?"

She hesitates. And then, with a breath like surrender, she begins to speak.

-

What an unexpected gain.

I watch from behind the tinted glass as the woman slips out of the car, her hood still up, shoulders hunched like she’s expecting the world to bite back. She doesn’t look back. Just melts into the foot traffic outside the center gates.

I exhale, slow and satisfied, leaning back into my seat as the door quietly clicks shut.

Towns like this—they have patterns. Ecosystems.

And one of the constants? The men.

Horrible men.

They deal drugs, extort families, run guns, deliver bodies. And somewhere along the way, that rot seeps into their homes. Their bedrooms. Their kitchen tables.

The woman who just left?

Mrs. Marco.

Who is Marco? Right hand of Valentino Jr. His secondhand muscle and favorite weapon. Not the brain of any operation, but certainly the bruising fist of one.

And Mrs. Marco... she had a black eye. A healing one, faded purple beneath her concealer.

Her voice barely made it above a whisper, but her hands were shouting.

She’s had enough.

She gave me names. Drop points. Codes. Hints of shipments moving in and out of the east district. But more than that—she gave me motive.

She’s done.

This is almost too easy.

How has no one exploited this part of the Castellano empire? This isn’t the dark ages anymore—people talk. Women break. And sometimes, they fight back.

All you have to do is listen.

Honestly, I’d been focused on Luciano—he’s louder, more arrogant, more dangerous in the public eye. Valentino Jr. wasn’t on my radar yet.

But this?

This changes things.

"Julie," I say, tapping the screen of my tablet as new files bloom across it, "add Marco to the priority list."

He appears in the rearview mirror, already typing. "Color-coded or circled in red?"

"Paint him crimson," I reply without looking up.

A beat passes.

"And for such goodwill..." I scroll back to the woman’s profile, her name flickering in the corner. "Let’s look into her situation. Quietly. Discreetly. Give her the best treatment. A new place. Safety. Real safety."

Julie hums, half-smile tugging at his lip. "You’re feeling generous."

"I’m rewarding initiative," I say.

And I mean it.

Loyalty shouldn’t be earned through fear alone. Sometimes, it’s cultivated. And nothing grows faster than desperation watered with hope.

Also if the other ladies see Mrs Marco, succeed, they’ll come too, it’s an investment really.