QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 135: Date gone wrong

Chapter 135

Daphne POV

"This is not a bloody game, Raffaele! Get it together. Both our heads are on the line!"

I slam my fist against the polished train car table between us, the force rattling the untouched wine glasses.

Raffaele winces, rubbing his temple like it might shield him from my fury.

"I know, it’s just—"

"No."

I cut him off coldly.

"You are a Castellano. Act like one. There’s only so many slip-ups we can afford, and this? This is the third mole in five days. Once is unfortunate. Twice is a pattern. Three times? It’s sabotage."

He opens his mouth to argue, but I hold up a hand.

"These people may have been your friends once. You may have grown up with them. But they’ve made it clear they don’t see you as family anymore. And if you’re not careful, they won’t just take us down—they’ll bury us."

The train hums beneath us, rolling smoothly along the rails, cutting across the Irish countryside. We’re en route to a summit—a high-stakes meeting with a key contact that could shift the balance of power in our favor.

I vouched for Raffaele. I picked this meeting. I even convinced Estela to come along—under the guise of a scenic train date. She’d never been to Ireland before. It was supposed to be a romantic getaway with slight work on the side, because I trusted this idiot.

That was before Julie slipped into my cabin, face pale, tablet in hand.

Exposed again.

"Once we survive this," I growl at Raffaele, stepping out of the parlor cabin, "we’ll finish this conversation."

I stalk down the corridor to my private cubicle, sliding the door open with more force than necessary.

Estela looks up.

Gods, she looks good.

Simple jumpsuit. Her hair flowing down.Legs crossed, one hand idly tracing the window’s edge. She turns at my entrance, expression shifting from casual to alert in seconds.

My beautiful, deadly little serpent.

I crouch under the plush seating and pull out the concealed briefcase. The locks click open with a practiced flick of my fingers.

"Sweetheart," I say, voice calm but clipped, "can you handle a gun?"

She doesn’t blink.

"Guns and knives."

I smile. Of course.

"Turns out our trip’s gone a little haywire."

We move fast. I hand her a pair of sleek black pistols. She checks the weight, adjusts her grip. Then a curved blade, which she tucks neatly into the side of her boot, before tying her hair up.

Damn.

She pulls the band tight with her teeth. Her biceps flex. She stands like a goddess of war, poised and unbothered.

She’s so hot I almost forget we might die.

Footsteps echo down the hallway. Heavy, too many. Not the usual shuffle of train staff.

I nod once. Estela understands instantly. She glides toward the door, back to the wall. I do the same on the opposite side.

Three.

Two.

One—

I swing the door open. A man in black lunges forward.

I shoot him point-blank in the chest. He drops like a rag doll.

Estela shoots the second attacker mid-step. Double tap to the thigh, then head. Precise. Surgical.

She turns and kicks the door closed with her heel.

I pivot and toss a small smoke canister down the hall. The corridor floods with mist. Red targeting lasers flick through it.

We dive low. I crawl, blind, knowing this train by muscle memory.

She covers my six. I hear the thud of boots, the grind of a door forced open.

We slip into the maintenance corridor.

Gunfire explodes behind us.

"Go high," I whisper.

Estela nods and vaults up the narrow ladder to the observation deck. I go left. Two more attackers. I shoot one through the eye. The other grazes my arm before Estela drops from the ceiling, knives first.

Blood sprays.

Gods. She’s graceful.

She lands, rolls, and hurls a knife into a man trying to sneak behind me.

"You’re amazing," I mutter.

"Focus!" she snaps, breathless.

Right. Focus. Focusing right now as we run.

More enemies flood the dining car. Tourists scream. I press the emergency intercom and shout for full lockdown.

The train jerks. The electricity flickers, and lights go red.

More enemies flood the dining car. Tourists scream. I press the emergency intercom and shout for full lockdown.

The train jerks. The electricity flickers, and lights go red.

I toss a flashbang, and we duck into the kitchen.

"Shortcut?" she asks.

"Uh huh."

We burst through the emergency passageway. A man grabs her wrist.

Big mistake.

She flips him onto the stove, slams a pot into his head.

Hot. So hot.

We’re almost to the cargo car.

I call Julie. "Extraction in five minutes. Bring backup. We’re flushing them into the last car."

We charge through. A man tries to shoot me point-blank.

Estela tackles him before he can pull the trigger.

I shoot his partner. She knees him in the throat. I finish him.

Bullets fly past us, ripping holes in the train walls. She tosses a pan to block one round, using it as a shield while she shoots three rounds through the window slit.

We dive behind overturned luggage, using cases as makeshift barricades. I reload while she crouches beside me, breath quick and steady.

"I thought this was supposed to be a date," she mutters.

"Next time: wine, no bullets. I promise."

She grins—sharp and wicked—before rising and shooting another man through the shoulder.

The last car is sealed. We lock it from our end.

When the train finally slows, we’ve left ten bodies in our wake. Maybe more.

I’m bleeding from my shoulder, but I feel fine.

Estela’s hand wraps around my arm, checking the wound.

She rips cloth from her jumpsuit and binds it.

"You’re terrifying," I whisper, breath still catching in my throat.

Estela tilts her head, eyes narrowing just slightly, her smirk playing at the corner of her lips. "And... you are... turned on?" she says, the teasing lilt in her voice completely at odds with the trail of blood on her cheek and the gun still in her hand.

I let out a shaky exhale. "What gave me away?"

She raises a single brow.

That’s it.

I don’t feel the pain in my shoulder anymore. Or the bruises forming along my ribs. Or the fact that we’re sitting in the aftermath of a massacre on a moving train. All I feel is her.

The next breath I take, I close the distance.

I grab her—firm, urgent—by the back of the neck and kiss her.