QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)
Chapter 190: Thank you

Chapter 190: Thank you

Chapter 190 – Raffaele POV

Even after more than twenty years of doing this, these events bore me to death.

I watch from my place near the head of the room as people pour in, milling about, plastic smiles, fake compliments.

My fiftieth birthday.

Another year, another party, another excuse for allies, rivals, and opportunists to crowd into one room, dressed to impress, lips ready to flatter or scheme.

It’s always the same: the sycophants, the veiled threats, the inevitable assassination attempt that no doubt someone is already planning.

I’m tired.

Tired of the games. The monotony.

Life at the top... after a while, everything starts to look the same.

I sip from my glass, barely tasting the aged scotch. My eyes drift lazily across the crowd. Politicians. Crime lords. Business moguls. Hired beauties on the arms of old men. It’s like a stage play on repeat—year after year, the same faces, the same empty laughter.

And then—

I blink.

There—walking through the grand double doors, flanked by stunned glances and parted guests.

A figure in a sharp black six-piece suit, tailored to perfection.

Tall. Poised. Confident.

Hair tied back in a sleek side ponytail, that familiar air of effortless authority clinging to them like a second skin.

A man, at first glance—commanding, magnetic—until you look closer.

Not a man.

Daphne.

I almost can’t believe it.

Five years. Five long years since I last saw her in person.

And damn her—she hasn’t aged a day. If anything, she’s only grown sharper.

The air in the room shifts. People notice her. Even the boldest hesitate to approach.

She surveys the room, those sharp eyes taking everything in with one cool glance—like a lioness dropped into a room full of sheep.

And then—her gaze finds mine.

Steady. Calm. Knowing.

She starts walking.

Each step measured, unhurried, cutting through the crowd as if none of them exist.

Damn her.

I sit up straighter despite myself, setting my glass down.

Even after all these years, that’s the only person on this earth I can say is close to a friend.

She stops in front of me, that faint, knowing smirk playing on her lips.My lips twitch despite myself.

I flick a glance to one of my aides—and with a subtle motion, he moves to distract the hovering guests.

Technically, it isn’t sneaking away—we are the center of attention—but it might as well be.

I turn and stride toward the side corridor,Daphne falls into step beside me, hands tucked into her trouser pockets with that easy, almost lazy confidence of hers.

"I’m impressed," she says, her eyes drifting over the opulent corridor.

"This is starting to look a little too much like the Castellano estate... before Valentino."

"It’s been this way for ten years," I reply, voice clipped. "You would know if you ever came by."

She lifts a brow, amused. "I sent gifts."

I snort softly, thinking of the so-called "congratulatory bouquets" she’s been sending me over the years. Always flowers, yes—but more than once accompanied by some "extra"—a severed limb here, a finger there.

Charming as always.

In the early years—when everything was newer, less exhausting—we used to meet often. At least a few times a year. Golf. Spa weekends. Late nights laughing over expensive scotch. Even after I became Don, we kept that going for a while.

But life... life got heavier. Busier. More complicated.

The meetups grew fewer. Once a year. Once every two. And then... silence.

Nothing happened—no fight, no falling out.

Just life.

And time.

Makes me sad to think about it.

Now, walking beside her again, aimlessly wandering the manicured gardens outside the main hall, talking about nothing in particular—politics, business gossip, her wife’s art collection, my wife’s insistence on redoing the north wing several times—I feel more relaxed than I’ve been in years.

We drift through old memories. Laugh about Antonia’s latest scandal—her very public affair with a twenty-year-old model, her obsession with toyboys now a running joke.

Eventually, we end up in my private office—dimly lit, comfortable, familiar.

I glance at the clock. Two hours have flown by.

I can hardly believe it.

"Drink?" I ask, standing, reaching for the decanter of whiskey.

She leans back lazily, one ankle resting over her knee.

"No thanks. I quit alcohol four years ago."

That makes me pause. I turn to look at her.

"I plan to live another thirty more years with my wife."

Her tone is casual, but the glint in her eye is warm.

I pour my own drink.

"How is she?" I ask.

As expected—her whole face softens. Lights up in that way only one person ever manages to bring out of her.

"She’s sad she couldn’t come," Daphne says with a small smile.

"But it was one of her sister’s graduations today. She couldn’t make it."

"Well... more for me, then." I pour myself another drink, the amber liquid catching the low light. "I’m not planning to live that long anyway."

She raises a brow at me—mild disapproval in that look. I can practically hear her voice in my head already.

I sigh. "I know, I know. But I’m genuinely tired." I swirl the glass slowly in my hand, watching the ripple of the whiskey.

"Besides... you and I both know, Dons never live that long. I give it... not more than ten years before the next generation of heirs decides it’s my time to croak."

Her gaze sharpens slightly, but she says nothing.

I lean back into my chair, letting the weight of those words settle.

The truth is—I never had children. A fact that was one of my few, true points of conflict with Grace.

But it was a line I would never cross.

I love Castellano. I do. But I would never bring my own children into this life. Into this bloodstained throne and the endless cycle of power, betrayal, and legacy.

Never.

And so—here we are.

The next generation of heirs?

A scattered mess of second cousins, nieces, nephews, children of distant branches and old allies.

My own refusal to produce a bloodline has... inadvertently multiplied them. Everyone with a drop of Castellano blood seems eager to position their little prince or princess for the future.

The next Rite of Dominion?

It’s going to be bloody as hell.

I’m almost sad I won’t be there to see it.

I glance down at the ring on my index finger—now so fused into my skin it’s practically part of me. No wonder they cut the finger off when a Don dies.

This ring... it doesn’t let go.

I take a slow sip of my drink, exhaling through my nose.

"...I’m glad you came by," I say eventually, my voice quieter, more honest than I’d intended.

She looks at me—steady, unreadable for a moment—then stands. Walks around the desk, pats my shoulder once.

Solid. Warm. Familiar. The first comfort I’ve felt in... a long time.

"I should be leaving," she says.

I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s late. Of course. But still... "Won’t you humor an old man and stay until tomorrow?" I ask, a faint smirk tugging at my mouth. "I doubt I’ll get much sleep tonight anyway."

She pauses. Sighs. Looks down at me. That same look she’s given me for years—equal parts amused and exasperated. But there’s fondness there too.

"...Fine," she says at last.

"But I’m not spending a night in the estate. I’ll come by in the morning."

I smile. "Daphne."

She meets my gaze.

"Thank you."