QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)-Chapter 164: Volatile

Chapter 164 - Raffaele POV

Daphne is volatile these days. Each time we make progress—another ally secured, another threat neutralized—she merely looks on, quiet and unreadable. She jokes less. Laughs even less than that. And her eyes... they’re filled with fury and rage.

It’s definitely not about the estate catching flames.She didn’t care about the Castellano estate, not really. The day after the fire, she’d sipped her espresso and smirked, "Well, at least those god-awful portraits of the old dons are gone."

But now? The smallest slight seems to send her over the edge. She’s not reckless—no, never that—but her temper is coiled tight and sharp, like a blade honed too thin. One wrong word, one wrong look, and she explodes. Not unpredictably. Precisely. Strategically. Violently.

"Valentino has disappeared without a trace," Julie says beside me, arms folded, his glittery jumpsuit catching the afternoon sun like shards of a mirror. It took a while to get used to the giant man in heels and makeup, but now I find it strange when he dresses any other way.

Daphne scoffs. "Of course he has."

We’re seated at an upscale restaurant on the outskirts of the financial district. Private booths. Surveillance blockers. No media allowed. I’m mid-sip of a bitter cocktail when I spot trouble striding toward us.

Renzo Castellano.

And a pack of his flea-ridden lackeys.

"They told me the whole place was booked," he says, smug and loud.

"Imagine my surprise—it’s my dear cousin and my dickless brother, Daphne."

His entourage chuckles. Daphne doesn’t look up. And that silence is unnerving. Usually, this is where she’d skewer him with a single well-placed barb.

Renzo drags out a chair, uninvited, and plops down beside us.

"Trouble in paradise?" he sneers.

I press a hand to my temple. "Now is not a good time."

"Why? Your little slut finally realize it’s time for a real man to show her how it’s done?"

I stiffen. Oh no. No. You don’t mention Estela.

I glance at Daphne—too late.

Renzo, the fool, leans in. "As a favor, she can come to me. I’ll show her what a real d—"

CRACK.

Daphne grabs the back of his head and slams it against the table. The sound is sickening. Wood groans. Bone cracks. Blood spurts. His scream is choked by his own teeth.

She doesn’t stop.

Again. And again. And again. Each hit is precise, brutal, controlled. Blood drips in rivers, staining the white tablecloth red.

"Boss, that’s enough. You’ll kill him at this rate," Julie says, stepping forward.

Daphne clicks her tongue and lets Renzo’s head drop with a thud. Then she stands, adjusts her jacket, and walks away without a backward glance.

I stare at Renzo’s twitching body for a beat, then bark at his frozen entourage. "What are you waiting for? Take him."

They scramble, dragging their bloodied boss away, still moaning in agony.

One of them nearly trips over a fallen chair, slipping on a smear of blood. Another gags. Renzo’s nose is a mess of pulp, and his right eye is already swelling shut.

Honestly, he had it coming.

I glance down at the table. Blood pools in the grooves of the white tablecloth like some abstract painting, and something small and off-white glints amid the mess.

A tooth.

I hum. "Oh well," I mutter, straightening my jacket.

I have to meet Antonia today.

***

Daphne POV

I sit at the penthouse desk, staring at the laptop screen. The city map glows in front of me, digital red pins scattered like wounds. My fingers drum against the keys, slow, measured.

Valentino is missing.

Which is insane—because before the reset, we found him easily. Played that whole mouse and cat game with him, sending body parts of his allies.

Now? Gone. Vanished. Like he was never there.

Apparently, he has a backer now. Someone powerful. Someone with reach.

Things have changed. Not dramatically—no. That would be easier to detect. It’s the little things. The subtle shifts. The dominoes that no longer fall the way they’re supposed to.

The city purge? It hasn’t gone as smoothly. We hit the same spots, used the same intel, but they were ready for us. Like they knew we were coming.

And Luciano?

Already cunning—now he’s sharper. Smarter. The old version of him underestimated me, for being female.

Now?

Now he watches me too closely. Counteracts my plans before they even hatch. He doesn’t just treat me like a threat—he treats me like a rival.

It’s unsettling.

Make it fucking make sense.

It’s like the reset wasn’t just time being turned back. It was reality itself rewriting the odds against me. Giving my enemies buffs and throwing obstacles into my path like this is some sadistic video game.

But the thing that’s pissed me off the most?

The assassination attempts against Estela.

Two this week. One in broad daylight. One near the shelter.

They’re looking down on me.

Underestimating me.

Luckily, they haven’t been able to touch her.They don’t realize that while Estela might look like a goddess in silk and smiles, she’s lethal. Sharp. Trained.

But that’s not good enough.

I can’t tell her to stay locked up in the penthouse like a cursed fairytale princess. She’d never allow it, and I’d never ask it.

So I’ll handle it.

I’ll find who’s sending them.

And I’ll make an example.

I tap the enter key, locking in the list of names that need to disappear by the end of the week.

"If you frown any longer, you’ll get wrinkles at a young age."

A voice—light, amused—drifts in from the doorway.

I don’t even turn. I just sigh and lean back in my chair.

"I’ll try to frown so much," I say, dry, giving Estela a tiny, sideways smile as she enters.

She’s in one of my robes. My favorite one on her. It drowns her frame but hangs open just enough to tease, her bare collarbone glowing in the low desk lamp light. Her hair’s damp again. Her cheeks flushed from the steam of the shower or maybe from the smile playing on her lips.

She walks over and doesn’t bother asking. Just settles into my lap like it’s hers.

Because it is.

"You’re so stressed these days," she murmurs, fingers sliding into my hair. She drags her nails gently over my scalp in soothing, circular strokes.

I close my eyes for a second. Let myself lean into it.

"Just... a lot to think about."

My voice is rougher than I mean for it to be.

"I know I can’t fix it," she says, tugging gently on a lock of my hair before brushing it behind my ear. "But I can offer temporary relief."

She shifts slightly.

And then tugs her robe open.

A breath catches in my throat.

Her skin is still dewy, warm from the shower. The robe slides down her shoulders like silk peeling from honey. She’s soft and golden in the dim light, and suddenly I can’t remember a single thing that was bothering me.

"What was I even so stressed about?" I murmur, hands already moving without permission.

One of them cups her breast, almost reverently. A perfect, warm weight in my palm. I squeeze slowly—like a stress ball—and her breath hitches just faintly. My thumb brushes across her nipple, and it stiffens instantly under the touch.

She leans forward, eyes half-lidded. "See? Better already."

Definitely way better.