QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)
Chapter 192: An aunt.

Chapter 192: An aunt.

191 – Renzo Jr. POV

I’ve never seen my father like this.

Not in front of anyone.

Not even the Don.

He’s... shut down. Visibly. Like the air’s been knocked out of him.

And this woman—who is she?

She looks... ordinary at first glance. Tall, slim, in a sleek suit. No guards, no pomp. No announcement. She just walked in.

But Father—he’s stiff. Palms damp. Barely able to meet her eyes. I can feel the tension rolling off him.

"Sister," she said. His sister?

Since when did Father have a sister?

No one ever speaks of it. The old men—the ones who sit at the big tables, who run this world with quiet whispers and knives in their sleeves—they never speak of it either.

But I’ve heard things.

Whispers.

That there’s a certain town in Europe—a small one, pretty, quiet. And that no matter who you are—Cartel, Castellano, Kingpin—you do not go near it.

You will die.

Not an empty threat. It happened once—before my time. Some genius decided it was the Don’s weakness. That if they sent a message through that town, it would rattle him.

The man went in. Never came back.

A week later, his head was delivered to the Don’s office—neatly boxed, perfectly preserved.

The Don had laughed when he opened it.

The story spread fast after that.

Now? No one so much as breathes near that town.

Looking at this woman—my supposed aunt?—I think I understand why.

Her presence alone shuts my father down.

I watch them both, quietly. Curious. Careful not to draw attention.

Just then, a group of people walks our way.

I internally groan.

Already tired.

This is why I hate these events. Always the same thing—being paraded around, forced to smile, forced to engage. Every conversation a minefield. Every compliment, a blade in silk.

And today, like clockwork.

"Renzo."

The voice is sharp. I glance up.

My grandmother. The previous Don’s wife.

I don’t like her. Never have.

She makes me... uncomfortable. The kind of presence that makes the hair on your neck stand. Cold.

"Mother," my father says stiffly.

At her side—of course—come the others.

Her two younger children: my father’s brother and sister.

Then the next generation.

Two of my cousins—sons of my uncle and aunt. One of them posturing already, practically drooling at the idea of being heir. I can’t stand the bastard.

And another cousin from my aunt’s side. He’s different. Polished. Already deep in politics, like his father, who once held the vice presidency. Ambitious in another way.

All potential rivals. All watching each other. Circling.

"Mother."

Aunt Daphne says it flatly. No warmth, no affection. I swear—the air drops to sub-zero.

"Daphne, how are you?" my grandmother answers, voice clipped and thin. Visibly awkward.

There should be more... emotion, surely. This is her daughter. But then again... this is our family. Familial bonds in Castellano? Hilarious.

"I’m great," Daphne replies breezily. "Now that I’ve seen you all. It’s been years. Let’s have a couple drinks... or tea?"

And just like that, she turns and starts walking—expecting everyone to follow.

And they do.

I watch them trail after her, unable to help themselves, like moths to flame.

We end up in one of the side lounges—dark woods, heavy curtains, a faint smell of cigar smoke that never seems to fade no matter how often this place is cleaned.

A servant brings tea. We all settle.

Daphne takes a look around the room, casual, completely at ease.

"Wow. Raffaele really did his best," she says lightly.

The words land like a gunshot.

No one—noone—calls the Don by his first name.

Not unless they want trouble.

Silence stretches long and thin. Everyone stiff, tense.

"Why the sour mood?" she asks with mock innocence, taking a sip of her tea. "Are you not happy to see me?"

No one answers.

She chuckles softly. "Some things never change, I see."

Her gaze shifts, sharp and lazy at once—pinning my uncle and grandmother both.

"Clearly," she says with a smile. "I’m surprised you reproduced though. I thought you and Mother were... serious about your relationship."

I nearly choke on my tea.

God.

She said it.

Everyone knows about the... suspicious closeness between those two. But no one dares mention it. It’s just an ugly truth swept under the rug for decades.

And here she is, tossing it out like it’s nothing.

My aunt speaks up, sharp and cold:

"Daphne. Still as unladylike as ever, I see."

Without missing a beat, Daphne lifts her cup. "Yes, sister. And you’re still the same—perfect housewife. Or at least trying. Over twenty years later... still sad. Oh, and do cut back on the fillers. It’s really obvious."

I snort—and quickly mask it with a cough.

The most surprising part?

They take it.

They take her verbal abuse. No sharp replies. No attempts to put her in her place.

It’s glorious

Even my father’s not exempt—he sits there, tense and red in the face. I know damn well he’ll take it out on my mother later. But for now? He says nothing.

"Daphne, stop terrorizing your family."

The voice cuts through the air like a blade. Calm. Deceptively light.

I feel a shiver run down my spine. Goosebumps prick across my neck.

The Don.

Raffaele Castellano.

The black horse of the last Rite of Dominion.

The man they say will smile as he stabs you in the heart. The one they whisper about behind closed doors—bloodthirsty, ruthless, a creature of war.

They say he doesn’t have children because he doesn’t want peace—he lives for conflict. For the next game. The next fight. The next bloodletting.

And here he is.

I glance up—he stands in the doorway, relaxed, a faint smirk on his face, one hand in the pocket of a perfectly cut black suit.

Daphne looks over her shoulder, amused.

"Oh come now, Don," she says lazily. "We’re just having tea."

He lifts a brow, walking into the room with the easy, casual grace of a predator.

"Mm. Looked more like open season."

He comes to stand behind her chair. One hand resting lightly on her shoulder for just a moment—almost a brotherly gesture. Almost.

The room’s tension twists tighter. No one speaks. Not my father, not my uncle, not even my grandmother dares open her mouth.

Of course they don’t.

He did kill their brother. And their son. To sit where he does now.

The Don’s presence is a weight. Thick. Suffocating.

Then he speaks—voice calm, almost casual:

"Let them be."

Simple words. But no one in the room mistakes the meaning.

Daphne laughs softly, the sound cool and easy. She rises, smoothing her suit.

"Well," she says, looking around the room with amused eyes. "Goodbye. I’ll see you at your funeral, Mother. Actually... maybe not. If I’m being honest."

She glances at my father and aunt. "Brothers, sister. Same."

And with that, she turns and walks away—stride unhurried, confident—as the Don falls into step beside her.

Together, they leave.

And the air in the room visibly relaxes.

Shoulders drop. Breaths release. Tension bleeds away like a popped vein.

I sit there, stunned.

Today... I found out I have an aunt.