QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)
Chapter 178: Only one of us

Chapter 178: Only one of us

Chapter 178 – Raffaele POV

It’s time.

It’s the devil’s hour literally—3AM—but it suits the Castellano way. Shadows. Secrecy. Deals inked in blood and whispered in hallways. I mean, the literal insignia is a snake.

We’re using the entire parliamentary chamber tonight. Which, frankly, is overkill. But with the estate gone—thanks to Valentino and the need to put on airs? Here we are.

The room is massive and ornate, curved like an amphitheater. Dozens of carved seats rise up around a marble podium in tiers, filled with

every Castellano connection with a name is here, from all over the world. Moles in government positions. Military heads. Financial sharks. Even a few black-market moguls dressed in fine silk, pretending to be legitimate.

Thick with the scent of cologne, cigar smoke, and suppressed ambition.

I sit up straight. The leather of the chair creaks under me, but it may as well be pins and needles.

My suit feels like a coffin.

Opposite me, Luciano leans back in his chair like he already owns the damn building. His charcoal suit is sharp, his hair combed back to perfect sheen. That smirk on his face makes my blood boil.

That arrogant little upturn of his mouth says he already thinks this is over. He’s confident. He should be.

He’s the firstborn son of the late Don. Raised among the elders. Schooled in the old ways. He was groomed for this.

Me? Forget being raised as an heir, I was just trying to catch the previous Don’s attention and get myself killed seeing as to how he killed my father, his brother to get the seat.

There’s laws to prevent this ofcourse, but who would police the Don?

The five elders—ancient men who may as well be embalmed—sit at the central dais, their microphones old and crackling. When they speak, their voices rattle more than echo, and their hands tremble as they reach for the silk-lined boxes of votes.

This is the first trial: Loyalty.

Each slip of paper is a declaration. Each mark beside a name is history speaking.

Luciano.

Luciano.

Luciano.

Luciano.

Luciano.

Grace, my wife, did her best to rally our backers. My father-in-law twisted arms and cashed favors, but even so, it’s clear: Luciano’s ahead. The tally climbs like a guillotine blade.

By the time it ends, it’s 4AM.

Luciano: 81.

Me: 63.

My stomach knots, but I show nothing. I keep my back straight. I breathe evenly. Think of Grace—my wife now. Think of her calm hand over mine.

No. Scratch that.

Think of Daphne.

That demon woman with the smirk of a wolf and the patience of a bomb. She’d sit here with her legs crossed, bored, like this was already decided in her favor. Not a single twitch. I’ve seen her like that even while bullets rained down. It’s terrifying.

Luciano moves like he’s about to rise and declare himself Don. I don’t blame him. He probably rehearsed it in front of a mirror.

Son of a—

One of the elders clears his throat. "Now—financial contributions and economic holdings."

The table at the center is wiped clean, the votes cleared. In their place come ledgers.

Real ones.

Contracts. Cash flow summaries. Property titles. Stockholdings. Smuggling routes. Even cryptic offshore digital wallets—an entire empire’s worth of numbers.

And mine? Mine are obscene.

Thanks to Daphne.

Two weeks ago, she moved resources so fast and clean it made my head spin. She used shell corporations in Georgia and Romania. Transferred access rights to oil depots. Liquefied digital currencies into traceable assets. All under my name.

I asked her once if she was sure.

She looked at me and said, "If you fuck me over, I’ll rip off your balls make you eat them. Then I’ll kill you, cut you into pieces and finally I’ll feed you to stray dogs. In that order."

Charming.

So yes, she was very sure.

It takes the elders thirty minutes to sort through the figures, aided by accountants and advisors on whisper earpieces.

"Raffaele Castellano provided the highest financial contributions," announces one, peering over his spectacles.

A murmur runs through the chamber.

Luciano’s head whips toward me, he’s on his feet in seconds. He storms to the center table, grabs the papers, eyes darting.

"This is rigged! That money isn’t his.We all know the Asian deals belong to that bitch!"

The elder frowns. "He possesses the rights. It is his now."

Another elder raises a brow. "Did you not also accept outside support?"

A man in a green coat from my side stands.

"Luciano accepted 40 million from the Di Barros. Also took weapons from El Cerdo’s leftover stock. We have confirmation it passed through the late Don’s legacy routes."

Gasps ripple.

Luciano freezes.

"Shall we disqualify both for outside support?" the elder asks.

I rise slowly.

Calm.

Measured.

"If outside support is disqualifying, neither of us qualifies," I say, voice firm. "But if what matters is the ability to provide, I’ve already proven I can. I’m not asking for trust. Look at the numbers. Look at the ports. The contracts. I brought results."

The elders nod. Luciano is fuming, I can see literal smoke leave his ears.

One elder nods. "The numbers are clear."

Another: "I second that."

I bow and retake my seat.

Luciano returns to his, visibly seething.

"Next," one elder says, tapping a mic, "Crisis response and problem-solving."

The third part.

Reports are brought in. Lies dressed as presentations. Luciano lies. I lie. The elders know. The room knows. That’s the tradition. This segment is theater.

I yawn and check my watch.

5:43 AM.

God. My spine feels like it’s been carved from stone.

And now, finally, the fake-ass reports are done. Lies passed around like communion. We all lied. Luciano lied. I lied.

"It has been discussed," one elder begins, voice like sandpaper scraping wood, "that though different approaches were taken... you both demonstrate qualities suitable for leadership."

I zone out.

My eyes drift to the center of the room, to the box sitting inconspicuously on the marble floor. It’s so plain it almost vanished into the tilework. No guards. No ornamentation. Just a box. I forgot it was even there.

The elder’s gaze flickers toward it.

"...due to one of the candidates," he continues, nodding faintly toward the box, "we have lost far too much man power."

Someone steps forward and lifts the lid.

Inside, resting neatly on dark velvet, is Valentino’s decapitated head.

I blink once. Then twice.

Right. That. I forgot, Daphne sent it via mail.

Valentino, the rabid bastard, brought chaos.

Murmurs ripple across the room. Some people look disturbed. Others impressed.

"Therefore," the elder says, slowly closing the box, "to prevent full-scale war between factions, the final decision shall not involve Castellano manpower."

He looks at both of us. Me. Luciano.

"You have two days. Settle it... privately."

Translation? Kill each other. Quietly. No official blood on the family’s hands. No soldiers. No armies.

Luciano doesn’t move. His eyes are locked on me. Cold. Calculating.

Two days.

And only one of us walks out.