Chapter 42 The Price of Silence
AVRIELLE'S POV
The goldsmith stared at the money, his arm frozen in mid-motion.
The heavy steel hammer he’d been using to shape the curve of a decorative cross-guard hung in the air, and from his widened eyes, you'd definitely know he was fighting his greed and fear.
With a dull thud, he dropped the hammer onto the wooden bench.
"Do you think that little pile of paper is enough to buy a man like me?" he asked, his voice regaining a bit of its oily arrogance.
He leaned back, crossing his soot-stained arms. "Do you even know what my hourly rate is for risking my head? I charge for the craft, the silence, and the danger. This? This is barely a down payment."
He wasn't just a merchant; he was a vulture who could smell desperation.
The driver didn’t even blink. Without a word, he reached down and pulled a heavy leather bag from his side—one I hadn't even noticed he was carrying when they came in. My mind was so fogged with the memory of the attack that I must have been blind to it.
Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.
Ten more bundles of cash slammed onto the table, stacking up like a wall between us and the rogue.
"These are cheap," the goldsmith sneered, though his eyes were twitching now, fixed on the growing mound of wealth. "I told you, for the Northwood pack, the price is..."
Before he could finish the sentence, the driver grabbed the bottom of the bag and upended it.
The sound was deafening in the small shop—a chaotic symphony of rustling paper and the heavy, metallic clink-clink-clink of solid gold bars tumbling out, scattering across the workbench and rolling onto the floor.
The goldsmith’s jaw didn't just drop; it went slack.
Suddenly, the driver leaned forward, slamming both fists onto the table with a force that made the gold bars jump. The wood groaned under the pressure.
I jumped, nearly tripping over my own feet as I scrambled back, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The driver turned his head toward me. For a split second, his eyes were terrifying—wild, amber, and filled with the residue of the shift he had just endured. I swallowed hard, my throat tight, feeling like a small animal caught in the sights of a predator. Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the storm in his gaze settled into a hard, cold calm.
He turned back to the goldsmith, his voice a low, vibrating growl that made the glass jars on the shelves rattle. "We don't have much time. If this money isn't enough for you, we can get things done the hard way. I can pay you in gold, or I can pay you in pain. Which one carries more weight in this shithole?"
The goldsmith’s arrogance evaporated instantly. He let out a sheepish, shaky laugh, his tongue darting out to lick his dry lips as he looked at the fortune piled before him. He reached out, his fingers trembling as they brushed against one of the gold bars.
"Of course... of course," he stammered, offering a pathetic, oily smile. "You remember when I said I could be bought with money? I wasn't kidding. I’m a man of my word."
He began frantically scooping the cash and gold back into the leather bag. "Let me just... let me just drop my tools in the storage room and come back. I’ll close the shop, and we can leave together. Right now. No delays."
As he moved to grab the bag, Liam’s hand shot out like a strike of lightning. He snatched the leather strap, his grip like iron. The enforcer’s gaze was stern, his eyes boring holes into the goldsmith’s soul.
"The money stays with me," Liam said, his voice like grinding stones. "Until your ass is back in this room and ready to move."
The goldsmith nodded frantically, not daring to argue. He scurried into the back room, the sound of clattering tools and sliding drawers echoing through the thin walls. He was fast—faster than I expected—and in no time, he was back, wiping his hands on a rag and looking at us expectantly.
"Ready," he said. "All done."
"Step outside, so I can lock the door, please." He flashed another sheepish smile that now seemed to get on my nerves.
It was crazy how he could switch from a cold bastard to a cocky fool.
'Chameleon,' I almost snarled at his face.
We all filed out of the cramped, suffocating shop into the cool evening air.
The goldsmith turned, pulling the heavy wooden door shut and locking it with a series of complicated latches. He then turned to Liam, rubbing his hands together with a sheepish, greedy grin.
"Can I... can I take the bag now?" he asked.
Liam scoffed, a sound of pure disgust. He tossed the bag at the man’s chest. The goldsmith caught it with a grunt, clutching it to his body as if it were a newborn child. I watched him, feeling another wave of nausea.
This was the man Adrian had risked his life for. This was the proof we were bringing back to the North—a man who would sell his mother for a gold bar.
We made our way back to the car. The driver didn't hesitate; he slid into the driver's seat, the engine already humming with power. But as Liam moved toward the front, the driver shook his head.
"You," the driver said, pointing at the goldsmith. "Front seat."
Liam didn't argue. He grabbed the goldsmith by the scruff of his neck and practically shoved him into the passenger seat before climbing into the back with Ivana and me.
I wanted to ask why. I wanted to ask why the seating arrangement had changed, why Liam looked like he wanted to snap the goldsmith’s neck, and why the driver was radiating an aura of such intense, vibrating anger. But the moment I looked at Liam’s face, the words died in my throat.
The air in the backseat was heavy, charged with a dark energy that made it hard to breathe.
The engine roared, and the tires spat gravel as we hit the road.
We were headed back. Back to the border. Back to the executioner’s clock.
I leaned my head against the window, watching the shadows of the rogue land flicker past.
Now, we had the man.
We had the evidence.