Old Money Novels & Stories

He has a beer gut that sticks out so far that I’m sure he can’t even find his own cock anymore, and his face has the unhealthy red pallor of a man who drinks way too much. “Yes,” the old man with the beer gut says and laughs jovially. “Still... a wolf like you. A rogue. What were the odds? But I guess if you have enough money, you can buy anything, hey? Maybe I’ll just teach you a lesson and show you that money can't get you everything you want. Humble you a little. Delay your paperwork by a month. Show you who the real boss is around here.”

We called them the elders, who frequently advised the Alpha. “Your father’s inheritance is worth nearly one billion dollars. As you can see, most of it is in fixed assets like fields, plantations, farms, and this house. There are also some vehicles, gold, and jewelries,” Mr. Pascoe explained to me. “And the money in the bank account?” My breath hitched in my throat. “It’s all been spent on Lady Gertrude’s medical treatment.” He shook his head.

It seemed like he couldn't explain things to them using the usual words. Amelia hurried over. "Uncles and aunties, what my boss meant was, gold is a sure win—if you buy it, you make money. Why not make some extra cash? And from what we see now, buying it is definitely a guaranteed profit! You don't want your pension money just sitting there doing nothing, right? You gotta learn to make money with your money, that way your kids and grandkids will have a better life too!" The old man and woman burst out laughing as soon as they heard it. Only a fool wouldn't make money.

The old man asked, finally speaking up. I snatched it back from the seller and handed it to him. “Feel how light it is. Real gold is heavy stuff, and should be considerably heavier at this size. Do you also see that green tinge to the colour? That’s not the oxidation you want on a keepsake that seems so dear to you. You deserve better than this.”

"One hundred and forty million. They’re calling you a visionary in the press. Behind closed doors? They’re calling you a liability." ​I didn't look up from the blueprints spread across my desk. I kept my compass steady, marking the perimeter of my new empire. "If you’re here to offer a post-mortem on my financial decisions, Mr. König, you’re late. The check has already cleared."

- From now on, everything that comes out of the box is yours, even just the candies, the chocolates, and the coins, because the box is yours. - As for the current numismatic value of this old coin, it's worth whatever you can pawn at that store where you work. - He said. - Know that this figure comes close to a thousand dollars, by the way. - He said. - This is too much. - She said. – I cannot accept. His voice sounds distant to his own ears. At that moment, when she feels (as she felt when she started to run up the Bend of the road of the Dead Man two months earlier, where he could pass out at any second.

And you're trying to shake me down? "Here's a tip: loosen up. There's nothing money can't fix." At that, the old lady exclaimed excitedly, "Ten thousand dollars!" Carmen let out a relieved breath and paid 10,000 dollars to the old lady like it was nothing. The old lady's jaw hit the floor. Carmen was all chill. "I was bracing for more. It's only 10,000 dollars." Everyone's jaws joined the old lady's. "Carmen, since when can you throw around cash like that? I thought your family was tight on money?"

I moaned. "Yes," my dad answered. What was happening? Not the best. She is insufficient, so don't worry. The elderly guy remarked with a gruff, thick Italian accent, "We'll mold her. My father said, "My money?" and the elderly guy waved a finger to a bodyguard who was approaching with a briefcase. When I opened it, there was plenty of cash. Stacks upon stacks of $100 banknotes. My father walked cautiously forward, looking over the cash before closing the case and grabbing it.

It made a soft, fleshy thud, as if it were made of frozen blood rather than metal. "This isn't King’s gold," Kaelen said, his voice tight. He turned the coin over. The weeping eye on the back seemed to blink in the flickering candlelight. "I’ve seen these in the old archives of the North. They call them Obols of the Unspoken. They aren't used to buy bread or steel. They are used to buy time."

Dirty money smells like copper, stale sweat, and fear. It has a texture—gritty, used, passed from desperate hand to desperate hand in the dark. Clean money has no smell. It is digital. It is a stream of zeros and ones flowing through fiber optic cables buried deep beneath the ocean. It is invisible, weightless, and absolute.