QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)
Chapter 180: Betrayal

Chapter 180: Betrayal

Chapter 180 – Raffaele POV

"Don’t die, okay?" Grace whispers, her fingers threading tightly through mine. Her hands are cold. Not from the temperature—we’re indoors, the suite softly lit with golden hues from the crystal chandelier overhead—but from fear. From the unbearable weight of what could come next.

I smile, even though it feels like something is cracking behind my teeth. I lean down and press a kiss to her forehead, lingering there longer than I should.

"I won’t," I murmur against her skin.

Whether I’m saying it to her or myself... I don’t know.

She lets out a shaky exhale, presses her cheek briefly to my chest, then steps back. Her eyes, always sharp even when clouded with tears, bore into mine like she’s trying to memorize me—just in case.

Regina steps forward next. Still barefoot, a silk robe wrapped around her like a sash of armor, she stands tall and scowls like it’s a defense mechanism. Like her glare alone can shield her from what she’s afraid to say.

"If you die," she says crisply, stepping into my space, "I’ll kill you."

I laugh. It bursts out, soft and unexpected. She scowls harder.

I wrap my arms around her, pull her close, and kiss her forehead too. She smells like expensive hair oil and bergamot—like someone trying hard not to care too much, and failing at it.

Managing three women—by all counts—is not easy.

It’s hard.

Messy.

But somehow, we’ve found a rhythm. A quiet cadence between glances, touches, sharp words followed by softer ones. I know I’m in love with Grace—fully, completely. But I do like Regina. She challenges me. Pushes me. And Antonia...

God.

Antonia is magnetic. Chaotic. I’m really really attracted to her.She pulls at some part of me that wants to be devoured.

I sigh, forcing myself to pull away from their warmth, their worry.

"I have to go."

None of them stop me.

*

I drive to the location—coordinates Daphne texted with no explanation and a locked file attached titled "Use this one."

How did she even get access to satellite tracking again? Sometimes I wonder if she’s secretly a war criminal or just that good. Probably both.

The car glides smoothly along the narrow road, weaving through empty countryside and quiet fields. It feels odd, driving alone. No staff, no guards, no one in the backseat barking updates or threats. Just me and the hum of the engine.

Honestly? It’s kind of peaceful.

If I wasn’t potentially on my way to die, I’d call it relaxing.

After about forty minutes, I pull up to a villa tucked away behind a rusted wrought iron gate. It’s cute. Unexpectedly so. Stucco walls in a warm cream tone, ivy curling up one side, and a proper little garden—flowers, trimmed hedges, even lemon trees. Someone’s been taking care of it.

I kill the engine, step out, and don’t bother locking the car.

The gravel crunches beneath my shoes. The night air smells like citrus and wet stone. It’d be a lovely spot for a weekend getaway.

I walk up to the door. No guards. No traps. No ominous signs of blood or bodies.

I let myself in.

The interior is just as deceptively pleasant—polished wood floors, terracotta tiles, a few family heirloom-style portraits on the wall. Someone put effort into making this place feel like home.

Which makes the next part almost absurd.

Because there, sitting by the bar like we’re at some exclusive cocktail lounge instead of two heirs about to murder each other, is Luciano.

He’s relaxed.

Slacks, a buttoned long-sleeved shirt rolled up at the forearms, collar open. His sleek dark hair is combed back in that signature style of his—precise, not a strand out of place. A half-empty tumbler of scotch sits in his hand, amber catching the low light.

"You’re here earlier than expected," he says without turning.

***

Luciano POV

The scotch is smooth, aged, smoky—it lingers on my tongue like memory.

I take another sip and glance sideways at him. Raffaele sits still, his fingers circling the rim of the empty glass in front of him. Not drinking. Not blinking.

"What? Afraid I’ve poisoned you?" I say with a chuckle, swirling the contents of my own glass lazily.

"Can you blame me?" he replies, tone dry.

Honestly, I can’t.

A heavy silence settles between us. The night air filtering through the slightly open window smells like roses. Old money, old blood. This villa’s too charming to witness a killing.

"Is the bitch waiting nearby?" I ask, finally.

He scoffs, rolling his shoulders back. "You don’t have to worry about Daphne. She’s not even in the country right now."

That gives me pause.

"Pretty brave, coming here all alone then?" I say.

He shrugs. "Honestly? I believe we should get this over with."

"Some revenge for your father?"

"Please," he exhales, annoyed. "It’s the Castellano way. The previous generation’s grudges aren’t mine."

That surprises me. But I hide it well.

"Right," I say, narrowing my eyes. "Unlike you, your father was competent. Wasn’t a puppet on strings for a—"

"Are you really going to call your youngest sister such names again?" he cuts in, coolly.

I scoff. Youngest sister. As if I owe that woman any sort of respect.

"There’s nothing to be ashamed of," he adds, watching me carefully. "You know damn well that if she were born with a dick, neither you nor I would’ve stood a chance."

I don’t answer.

Because he’s right.

I don’t like her. She never fit the mold. My first order of business is getting rid of her when I’m Don, I’ll give her one more chance ofcourse to give in—even I cannot deny her ruthless brain and smarts—, if she is still her audacious self. I will have to cut her out, before she spreads her ideas and thoughts to other women like a cancer.

"Must have some brains, given how far you’ve come," I murmur.

"True. She invested a lot into molding me. No shame in it. That’s probably why she’s on my side, not yours."

He leans back, folds his arms.

"I’m glad you’re such a bigoted piece of shit, honestly. Had you not been, in another universe, you and her might’ve made a killer duo."

I flinch.

"Fortunately, you’re not," he finishes.

I swallow hard.

"Please," I scoff, trying to regain control. "She’s a woman. Do you not understand how embarrassing it would be for everyone if she had power? Are you not embarrassed?"

"Wow," he breathes, staring at me like I’m beneath him.

"You really do think that way. This isn’t the 1800s. How is Castellano ever going to evolve with people like you still clutching the reins?"

I glance at my watch.

Right on time.

"Clearly she’s not that smart," I mutter, smirking. "If she let you come here unprotected."

His eyes glint. "Clearly you still haven’t learned not to underestimate people."

And then—gunfire.

It erupts outside the villa like thunder cracking through glass. Rapid, brutal. Screams. Boots scrambling on gravel.

Conflict.

I rise slowly. He lifts his glass and toasts me.

I set mine down.

Unbuckle my watch. The metal feels heavy in my hand.

I face him.

"No hard feelings, cousin. This is just the way of the Castellano."

He nods once. "Likewise. This is the way of the Castellano."

Then I feel it.

Pain.

It doesn’t register at first. Just pressure. A hot bloom in my lower back, like fire meeting skin. My breath catches.

I turn.

Antonia is standing there.

Blood glistens on the knife in her hand.

She looks calm. Beautiful. The same smirk I once kissed on her lips now aimed at my shock.

"Antonia..." I whisper, stunned. "Why—"