Bloody Money Novels & Stories

"You messaged." Oh. It's her. The one known for black-market blood deals. She'd been doing it under the radar for years—selling blood, mostly omega, sometimes alpha, to labs or rogue buyers. She paid well. Real well. "It's me," I said quickly. "How much money do you need?" "Only about four thousand," I replied, voice tight. She raised a brow. "That much? That'll cost you more than three bags—at least." "I know. Just do it," I snapped.

said Fabrizio, getting straight to the point, “we would like to ask you about a recent transaction on your account.” Daisy’s heart seemed to stop for a moment. She tried to keep her expression calm. “What transaction?” Fabrizio did not answer. Instead, he slid a tablet across the table displaying clear figures on the screen—an amount far from small with a very specific timestamp. Daisy swallowed. “That's personal money,” she stammered. “There’s nothing unusual about it.” Fabrizio stared at her without blinking. “One hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” he said slowly. “Transferred in a single transaction from an unregistered account.” He paused briefly. “It happened just a few hours before t

The process generated dozens of discrepancies initially, most of them harmless accounting artifacts. Then one discrepancy refused to disappear. A salary allocation. Substantial. Senior-level compensation. Budgeted continuously for almost four years. Yet attached to no surviving employee file. No personnel record. No tax documentation. No benefits enrollment. Nothing. Just money. Flowing into an empty space. Noah leaned closer to the screen. "Could it be corrupted?" Dani shook her head immediately. "The accounting side isn't corrupted." She enlarged the transaction history. "The money existed." "Where did it go?"

he nods, “The account itself has money being funnelled into it, but I can’t tell you where from, yet. I’ll need more time to nail that down. There’s a huge amount of encryption on it, and the money is bouncing through several accounts to get to the one we know of.” He pulls up an image of the account in question. “There is a huge amount of money here, and I don’t know where he’s got it from.” There are millions sitting there. How would a rogue vamp get this kind of money?

Something real in this carnival of lies. After splashing my face with cold water, I walk numbly back to the bedroom. I retrieve my phone from where I dropped it, and check my bank account. The screen blurs as I stare at the numbers. The money sits there, mocking me. Blood money. Payment from my father's killer for the privilege of using my body to create new life. Money he deposited while knowing exactly who I was, exactly what he'd stolen from me. He had to know who I was.

"That money belongs to the Crescent Pack. It’s blood money, earned by my wolves. They protect this land." I finally looked up but kept my gaze cold, with a feeling of satisfaction. "That money was earned by me, Roman. I took the pack’s stagnant land-holdings and turned them into a REIT. I invested your 'blood money' into human tech stocks when you told me to 'just go shopping and stay out of the way.' I didn't steal it. I’ve just... moved it to a human bank. One where an Alpha’s roar doesn't count as a PIN code."

"Four people." "Families, technically. Old money connected to old violence. They do not operate directly. They manage conditions. The same way the Council managed conditions. Except they manage the conditions of the entire layer." "Names." The Broker opened the file to the first page. He turned it toward us. Two of the four names I recognized from financial intelligence that Rem had built across the past months. Old European money with legitimate faces over criminal infrastructure. The third was a name I had never encountered. The fourth name was one I had encountered once. In a file Rem had flagged. He had been unable to verify it because the verification trails all went cold.

Zayden The southern port district reeked of diesel fuel, rotting fish, and freezing ocean brine. Heavy freezing rain lashed against the corrugated iron roofs of Warehouse 14, echoing like a hail of gunfire. Inside the cavernous, dimly lit hangar, thirty heavily armed mercenaries from Victor Romano’s top syndicate stood positioned around three massive steel shipping containers—filled with thirty million dollars' worth of military-grade munitions that belonged exclusively to the Blackthorn conglomerate.

Behind me was the world that had thrown me away, and in front of me was a terrifying uncertainty. My fingers shook violently in my jacket pocket, touching the envelope Yael had given me. The texture of the paper felt rough, a reminder of the heavy burden I had left on my brother’s shoulders. I wasn't just carrying money; I was carrying the trust of someone who still saw me as a human being, not as a family asset or a "perfect child." Every time my fingers brushed against the envelope, I felt a sharp sting of guilt. This money was supposed to be for his future, and now, it was in my hands because I failed to be a reliable brother. I had to protect it. I had to turn these pieces of paper into

My tongue felt thick and dry, paralyzed by the sheer scale of the deception. My mother had taken that much money from Arthur? How? How do you bleed a man dry of fifty million dollars while sharing a home, a bed, and a life with him? How do you orchestrate a financial heist of that magnitude right under the nose of one of the most powerful corporate executives in the city? Why? What did she need that kind of capital for? Was it tied to the Vance Group merger? Was it hush money paid out to ghosts from her past—like Gabriel?