John Wick Latin Tattoo Novels & Stories

He doesn’t respond but swiftly makes a beeline to his office, and I follow him like a lost pup, with no clue what the tattoo means or why it’s such a big deal. When I get to the study, he’s already in front of his computer, typing away with determination. “Shit, this can’t be,” he mutters in disbelief. “What? What can’t be? What’s wrong, Jack? Is the tattoo an issue?” I rush to stand behind him. “This tattoo... it’s popular in Blue Water Pack.” “What? Do you mean Blue Waters Pack?” “The rose on the snake it’s from Blue Waters. The majority of people with this specific tattoo are their spies.”

Not him. Just. Like. Everything. Else. "Yes, Pakhan." I bow my head with reverence, and Aleksander's eyes drift down to the tattoo on my wrist, where his gaze lingers. All the men in the Knights who pass The Reaping at the age of sixteen receive the Viking Futhark rune for defense tattooed on the underside of their wrist. They then receive the Greek Sigma symbol once they're initiated into the Brotherhood. I have neither because not only should no one know of my existence and lineage, but I was supposed to die that night seventeen years ago.

Between them, in elegant black script, sat the tattoo: CW His striking glassy gray eyes darkened as he stared. “There’s another one,” I said, voice turning low and teasing. “On my hip bone. Want to see that too?” He nodded once. I stood, unzipped the prison trousers, and nudged them down just enough to reveal the smooth skin of my hip. The second tattoo read CROWE in the same beautiful lettering, right above the delicate line of my v-cut. “I can’t see it properly,” Ryker murmured, his voice dropping. “Come closer.”

Kieran’s POV: That tattoo, it was something that I had never seen before. I paused at the fact that it was my name. Even though it was disguised, I knew. The tattoo was a minimalist crown sharp and angular, unlike any royal insignia I had ever seen. Below it, a date. A subtle set of Roman numerals, the same day he got appointed as my guard and below that, in small, precise script barely larger than a whisper: "Even if it ruins me."

"Mm." "What's the tattoo on your rib?" A pause. "You noticed that?" "Hard to miss when I've been lying on top of you." He huffs a quiet laugh. "It's Latin. Means what endures." I trace the letters with my fingertip. Small and precise, slightly faded at the edges. Old ink. Something he's carried for a long time. "How old were you?" "Twenty-two. Going through a phase." "A Latin phase." "Don't." "I didn't say anything."

Don Dani puffed before asking, “Is that so? A politician's son, no? Inlaw to a rich businessman? Who? A fuckin Reverend?” But he was not ready for Juan's simple and short reply: “None of these, boss... He's a made man... I saw, on his hand... The tattoo of a brown snake.” Don Dani's cigarette fell out of his mouth when he heard this. He was like a lion whose mouth was open, nearly drooling with shock. “Uomini?” He managed to whisper. “That's the only thing it could mean, boss..” Juan replied. Don Dani instantly began feeling hot. His shirt soaked up his sweat and was soon sticking to his body.

"For my final question, I'll ask you which of your tattoos is your favorite." "As you mentioned earlier with the song question, I can't choose just one. But, one of my favorites is this," he lifts the top of his shirt to reveal a quote tattooed in French on the left side of his outer collarbone. I'd seen it before but never knew its meaning. "Qui vivra terra," he pronounces, emphasizing the accent, "it means 'he who lives, shall see.'" I lean in to inspect his tattoo, despite having explored his body many times before. My hand rises on its own and gently brushes over the inked text, as if applying any pressure could erase it.

He looked at me briefly then back at my hand that was holding onto his. The biggest and clearer of the tattoos was on the back of his palm. It was drawn with dark ink that stood out on his well tanned dark hands. At first it looked like a sun rising in the horizon and glazing over a field with details of how it shines around it in tiny well drawn marks, I soon realized it was the sea the sun was rising on and not heaps in a field. "Solem Orientem Ghe Mari" I called out the foreign words written right under the tattoo of the sun and the sea. It sounded Latin or was it Italian?

"And this time, I'm using a permanent marker." I looked up at the giant white hand. On the wrist, there was a tattoo. It was my own name. Logan Frost.

Alfi added. “How do you know that my tattoo is my Jowa?” Herman asked in surprise. “It”s simple, before shooting, you always stroke your tattoo, right? You do it because of your pride in the tattoo. That”s what I am sure that your tattoo is your Jowa.” Alfi explained. “Herman, use your imagination to destroy those diamonds. Imagine that your nails are as hard as a diamond, as fast as light and they have a nuclear explosive effect!” Alfi explained.