QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 159: Cleaning

Scared silence settles across the city like ash.

It is the kind of silence that hums under the skin. That keeps dogs from barking. That makes children cry without making a sound. No shop is open. No bar. No corner vendor selling cigarettes or boiled eggs at the intersections. The neon lights are off. Even the red district has gone dark.

The people know.

Something has shifted.

And this time, the terror isn’t hidden in whispers or coded in politics. It walks the streets in broad daylight and now moves like a shadow through the night.

All across the city, those who once dared to profit from Castellano’s weakness are being dragged from their homes.

The doors don’t creak open. They’re kicked in.

By men in black.

Unmarked vans sweep through the neighborhoods like predators. The loudest voices go silent first. Rival dealers, opportunists, street captains of the fake truce factions—all pulled from their hideouts and onto their knees.

Some try to run. They don’t make it far.

Others scream. The city swallows the sound.

In the old northern sector, a warehouse turns into an execution site. A dozen men, stripped and bound, kneel against its walls. A hooded figure walks behind them with a silenced pistol. One by one, they slump forward. No witnesses. No survivors.

In a residential block, a woman who once mocked the Castellanos at a truce banquet is found stuffed inside her own liquor cabinet, throat slit from ear to ear, her favorite pearl earrings shoved down her mouth.

In the heart of the city, someone tries to barricade themselves inside a top-floor penthouse. Armed. Reinforced. Private guards.

It doesn’t matter.

They go through the walls. ƒreewebηoveℓ.com

Security systems glitch.

By morning, nothing’s left but the smell of burning flesh and blood-streaked marble.

People who were brave yesterday are ghosts today. Everyone knows someone who disappeared. A cousin. A boss. A girl who talked too loud.

Some flee.

They take what they can—cash, IDs, burner phones—and disappear into ports, over borders, into night trains that may or may not reach their end.

Some pray.

But most?

They wait.

Windows shuttered. Lights off. Phones powered down. They sleep on the floor, if at all, curled up like childrenwho once heard fairytales about what Castellano justice used to look like.

Now they’re living it.

And the worst part?

No one knows who’s giving the orders.

***

Grace POV

This is the first time in decades that a city-wide purge has happened.

Not a political scandal. Not a quiet hit.

A purge.

The last time something like this happened, it was the early 1900s—a Castellano civil war that painted the streets red and rewrote the balance of the underground for the next fifty years.

I’ve been awake for thirty-two hours.

My eyes are red, bloodshot, rimmed with exhaustion. My voice—when I’ve spoken at all—has stayed low, clipped, and just short of shaking.

Because I know what’s happening out there.

Everyone in our faction does.

And right now, we’re the only ones keeping this empire from looking like a full-blown dictatorship.

The Public Relations & Alliances Division—our delicate, camera-facing corner of the Castellano dynasty—is working at full capacity. Phones are ringing. Lawyers are drafting. Crisis managers are coordinating with shell companies, police liaisons, fake NGOs, and terrified mayors.

We’re spinning chaos into a sympathetic narrative.

We’re making mass execution look like unfortunate civil unrest.

And me?

I’m orchestrating the entire thing on zero sleep, with four cups of espresso in my system and a silk blouse stained with highlighter and blood—I don’t know if it’s mine.

I stretch slowly, fingers trembling, vertebrae cracking.

I should’ve asked Daphne Castellano for help.

She has that clinical charm, that deadly clarity the press eats up when things go sideways.

But I can’t.

Because she’s not here.

She’s with the Castellano men.

And together, they are orchestrating a bloodbath.

Not behind closed doors. Not through whispers or middlemen.

Open. Brutal. Surgical.

So now it’s up to me—to stand here in heels and pearl earrings, brushing the blood off the headlines and writing press releases that say:

"Regrettable inter-faction violence."

"Post-trauma instability following the terrorist attack."

"A grieving family responding with vigilance."

I call for the team.

It’s time to prepare the official address.

And by "official," I mean elegant lies tied with velvet.

*

The lights are hot.

The cameras flash.

And I stand, calm, composed, every inch of me wrapped in silence and satin. My voice is steady as I face the city—and the world—with a carefully curated expression of concern and grace.

"Following the tragic terrorist attack on the Castellano estate, tensions have escalated among rival factions.

The city has seen a sharp spike in retaliatory violence, as splinter groups and opportunists attempt to exploit perceived instability in the Castellano holdings.

Law enforcement is currently investigating a series of coordinated gang-related incidents that have resulted in multiple casualties.

We are working closely with national security forces to restore order and prevent further bloodshed.

The Castellano family condemns all unlawful violence and pledges its full cooperation with the authorities to bring justice to the city’s victims."

I pause.

Let the words hang.

Let the illusion settle.

Behind my eyes, I know what this really is.

Translation for those in the know:

"Order has been broken. We’re cleaning house. Stay out of our way."

I let the previous words settle before shifting gears—my voice softens, lower now. Grieving.

"As for the attack on the Castellano estate itself... we can now confirm a death toll of eighty-six individuals."

A ripple of shocked murmurs stirs across the press floor.

I lower my gaze for a moment, just long enough to sell it.

"These were not soldiers. Not combatants. They were staff. Assistants. Drivers. Cooks. Gardeners. Children of loyal servants. People who gave their lives in quiet service—people who never expected to die in a war they didn’t start."

I let that hang, just long enough to twist the knife in public sentiment.

"We are heartbroken. We are outraged. We are grieving alongside every single family affected."

Another pause.

> "We assure you, those families will be honored. Protected. Their losses will be remembered in both private ceremony and public record. There will be compensation, yes—but there will also be accountability and Justice. Thank you."