QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 160: Invitation

Chapter 160

Estela POV

I find him. Eventually.

Marco.

Valentino Jr.’s right hand.

He hid well. Better than most. Changed his appearance, took on a new name, even had embassy-grade credentials. Tucked himself away in a halfway house meant for ex-diplomats with gambling debts. Smart. Cunning. Paranoid.

But not paranoid enough.

Daphne didn’t want me involved.

Not because she thought I’d fail.

But because she knows what killing does to me.

She knows I still feel it. The guilt. The weight. The cold shadow that follows every time I pull the trigger and take a life.

But what she doesn’t get is—I can feel it and still do it.

I crouch low outside his safehouse, the rough brick digging into my back. My fingers tighten around the grip of my gun as I take a long breath through my mouth, willing myself to be calm. One light’s on in the back of the house. He thinks he’s safe. He’s wrong.

I slip up the stairwell, silent but quick. The floorboards creak faintly beneath my weight, but I’ve already mapped the path with my eyes. I move where the wood is strongest, where time hasn’t warped it.

Then I see it.

A flash of movement from the hallway. His arm rising. A glint of metal.

The first bullet misses me by inches, carving through the plaster like a knife through paper. I duck back behind the wall as another round whips past my ear. Dust rains down from the ceiling.

He’s fast. Desperate. But I’ve seen desperation before—it’s sloppy.

I return fire. Clean. Calculated. My bullets shred the edge of his desk, splinters flying. I hear him curse. He reloads quickly, fires blind, and misses again.

We move through the house like shadows trying to consume one another, dodging, angling, retaliating. For a few chaotic minutes, it’s just the two of us in that crumbling space, trading gunfire and adrenaline. Neither of us aiming to wound. We both know exactly why we’re here.

Then he panics.

I hear the door slam as he barrels into the alley. He stumbles into a waiting car—a sleek black vehicle parked just two houses down. He doesn’t even check the driver’s pulse. He just climbs in, engine roaring to life. freēnovelkiss.com

I’ve already got him.

I line up the shot, exhale, and pull the trigger.

The back tire explodes.

The car spins out of control, flips once, then again before slamming upside down against the alley wall. Glass showers across the pavement. Smoke hisses from the hood. The wreck is silent.

I walk toward it. Slow. Measured.

Marco drags himself out through the broken passenger window. Blood pours down his temple. His shirt’s ripped. His hands shake. He coughs, groans, his breath rattling—but he still tries to crawl.

He sees me.

And for some reason, he laughs.

"You?" he spits, red frothing at his lips. "I thought they’d send someone special. Not some bitch."

The audacity of it would be laughable if it wasn’t so pathetic.

Then he reaches for his waistband.

I don’t wait.

I shoot his hand.

He screams—a piercing, ugly sound.

"FUCK YOU!" he roars.

I shoot again. The shoulder.

Again. The knee.

He screams.

Loud. Piercing.

He collapses completely. Twitching. Gasping. Looking up at me with a pale, sweat-drenched face.

And that’s when it hits him.

He’s not going to limp away from this. There won’t be a hospital. No bargaining. No exile. Only this.

"Wait—wait," he stammers. "I can give you something. I can give you information."

I say nothing.

"I know where he is," he gasps.

"He contacted me. I helped him after the bombing. He needed a route, funding—he’s not far. I swear."

His hand inches toward his jacket.

"I have the location. Encrypted drive. Right pocket. Just let me live—please—"

I raise the gun again.

His voice cracks. He’s begging now. "Please, please... I’m more valuable alive..."

I step closer.

He sees the look on my face.

And I see it in his eyes—the horror. The understanding. The certainty.

This is the end.

I aim the gun at his forehead.

And I smirk. Just a little.

Then I pull the trigger.

His body jerks once and slumps back against the wreckage. His mouth stays slightly open, like he still had something to say. The blood pools beneath him, dark and accusing.

I stare at him.

Just for a second.

And then I kneel.

I press the gun to the base of his index finger and pull the trigger again.

The finger pops free, bone and sinew shredded. It lands with a wet thump beside his hand.

I close my eyes and breathe through my nose.

The coppery tang of blood clings to the air, thick and metallic, crawling into my throat like smoke. I never get used to it—no matter how many times I’ve stood over bodies.

Reaching down, I pick up the severed finger—still warm, still twitching slightly at the knuckle like death hasn’t quite finished settling in.

*

I go through multiple security checks before I’m even allowed into the building. The guards at the front recognize me, but protocol is protocol—especially now, after everything.

This penthouse, perched high above the city, is the new heart of the empire. Temporary, maybe. But for now, it’s fortress enough.

Each floor is scanned. Each hallway is monitored. By the time I step off the private elevator and into the suite’s marbled entryway, I’ve passed through more eyes, metal detectors, and biometric scans than a government official.

As I reach the final checkpoint, I bump into Julie strutting out like a storm in stilettos, dressed in a black glittery jumpsuit with sheer sleeves and a mood that could kill on contact. He gives me a wink and a dazzling smile.

I just nod, lifting a hand in silent greeting as he disappears down the hall, humming something dramatic.

When I step inside, the atmosphere shifts. Tense, but focused. The penthouse isn’t warm—it’s efficient. Too new to be home, but too full of ghosts to feel empty.

I find Daphne standing near the long window, speaking to Raffaele. They’re hunched over something—blueprints, maybe, or lists of names. They speak in clipped tones, voices low but firm. Power radiates from both of them, cold and cutting.

Then Daphne looks up.

The moment her eyes land on me, something softens. Her posture relaxes, her features ease. Her eyes—god, her eyes light up like the whole city isn’t on fire just outside those windows.

She says nothing. Just opens her arms and pats her lap.

It’s all the invitation I need.