QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 156: Boom

Chapter 156 – Daphne POV

Tensions aren’t rising anymore.

They’ve already exploded.

Now we’re just sitting in the fallout, pretending there’s still a table between us and not a war.

Luciano’s voice is the match this time.

"We should get rid of them all," he growls, slamming his hand on the table. The wood groans under the force.

"Burn them out. Every last one."

I pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting the throb blooming behind my eyes.

"This isn’t the fucking ’80s anymore," I say tightly.

"You want to leave a trail of bodies across the city? What next? Print Castellano calling cards and leave them on the corpses?"

He glares at me. "Then what the fuck are we supposed to do?"

"That’s the purpose of this meeting, isn’t it?" I snap, letting the full weight of my fury bleed into my voice.

Across the table, Raffaele leans forward, lips pressed into a pale, trembling line. His hand is still bandaged from the shrapnel. His coat is wrinkled. His eyes?

His eyes are empty.

Then he turns sharply, locking on one of the men kneeling on the ground in front of us—a former courier, or maybe a contact. They all blur together lately, so many bleeding out at our feet with no answers.

"You," Raffaele says, voice flat.

The man doesn’t speak.

Raffaele’s hands tighten at his sides. His knuckles go white.

"How did this happen?" he growls.

Still, the man says nothing. Just breathes through his nose and stares at the floor like a dog waiting to be put down.

Raffaele doesn’t wait.

He pulls out his gun with a speed that doesn’t feel like rage—it feels like ritual. And fires.

The shot goes clean through the man’s hand. The scream is immediate and awful, echoing off the stone.

Blood hits the marble..

Raffaele doesn’t stop. He throws the gun across the room hard enough to crack the plaster. It hits the wall and drops with a clatter. He stands now, breathing hard, eyes red-rimmed.

I don’t stop him.

Because I understand.

Those girls were his. His to protect. His responsibility. And they died branded and burned in rooms meant to be safe.

The war room is a simmering pit of fury. Everyone’s raw—bleeding power and pride—arguing over retaliation, loyalty, losses. The walls feel too tight. The air too heavy.

Then—

The doors slam open.

Everyone turns. Instinctively.

Julie barrels in like a bullet.

No heels. No jewels. Just slacks, a tight black tee, and a face dripping with sweat. His curls are barely pulled back, and there’s a wildness in his eyes I’ve only seen once—when I killed my first man, and he cleaned the blood off my shoes.

"Julie?" I rise halfway from my seat.

He doesn’t stop to breathe. Doesn’t blink.

"**Valentino Jr. is the snake. Code B-0-9!" he yells, voice ragged.

For a split second, no one reacts.

But I do.

I bolt.

"Raffaele—RUN!" I scream, already sprinting for the door. "It’s all gonna blow!"

That’s all it takes.

Panic detonates in the room.

Chairs scrape, men shout, bodies shove.

Luciano curses and kicks the table over, drawing his gun on instinct as if bullets can stop a firestorm. The rest of the Castellano heads surge behind me, stampeding through the hallway.

Sirens start wailing overhead—internal alarms, ones no one’s heard since the lockdown drills our fathers practiced.

We turn a sharp corner—just past the grand stairwell—and I see it:

The massive floor-to-ceiling window.

Outside, the grounds. The courtyard. Freedom.

I don’t think.

I grab the nearest lamp stand, a cast-iron decorative piece, heavy as sin. I swing.

The first hit bounces.

It’s bulletproof. Reinforced.

Shit.

"Help me!" I shout, and two guards leap in. Luciano grabs a candelabra. Raffaele crashes his shoulder into the glass.

We slam it again.

And again.

It cracks—finally. Spiderwebbing down the middle.

Another blow.

The whole pane shudders. freewёbnoνel.com

I throw my weight into the last hit.

Glass shatters.

No hesitation. No pause. No breath to spare.

I jump.

Glass slices across my cheek on the way out—sharp, hot, blooming like fire just beneath the skin. My coat catches on the jagged edge, tearing, but I don’t care. The wind whips past me. The courtyard rushes up to meet me.

I hit the ground hard—knees slamming into earth, jarring up my spine, gravel biting into my palms.

But I don’t stop.

I can’t.

There’s no time.

Not to scream. Not to curse. Not to even process the way my ribs feel like they’ve cracked.

I’m already on my feet.

Already running.

As fast as I can. As far away from the fucking bloody estate as my legs will carry me.

My lungs burn. My legs ache. Every breath scrapes down my throat like glass—but I run.

Behind me, the earth shakes. A low, awful groan rolls through the ground like something ancient waking up beneath the foundation.

Then—

BOOM.

***

Estela POV

"We interrupt this broadcast to announce—there’s been a terrorist attack on the Castellano estate..."

The anchor’s voice drones on, words slicing the air like razors. But I don’t hear them. Not really. Just that one sentence, looping like a knife in my chest.

My hands go numb.

The clipboard I was holding clatters to the floor. I don’t even register the sound.

Castellano estate.

Terrorist attack.

Daphne.

She said she had a meeting today. Said it casually, like it was just another boring discussion with her bloodthirsty siblings and war-hungry cousins. No reason to worry. No reason to follow up.

She even kissed me goodbye that morning.

Told me to eat something.

I can’t breathe.

The air feels thick. My knees buckle beneath me like someone’s cut the strings. I fall hard, but I barely feel it.

"Estela!" someone calls—one of the women at the shelter, maybe Mary, maybe Sofia—but I can’t answer. My throat is closing. My vision is starting to tunnel.

I’m not dramatic. I’ve seen death. I’ve caused death.

But this? This isn’t supposed to happen.

Not to her.

Not when I just started letting myself believe this life was real. That we could make it out. That I could stop surviving and start living.

Hands are on me, trying to lift me. A glass of water appears. Someone switches off the TV, but the words keep echoing in my head.

Daphne.

No.

No, she can’t be—

I surge up suddenly, pushing the hands away.

"I have to go," I say, breathless.

"Estela, no—wait, you don’t even know where—"

"She was there." My voice cracks. "She had to be there."

I stumble toward the door, not even sure how I’m going to get to the estate—if it’s even still standing.

But I have to find her.

Or what’s left of her.

Because if Daphne’s gone—

Then there’s no point in this new life.