John Wick Latin Tattoo Novels & Stories

And the ones after that, Arnold fired and Ronan twisted, one hand grabbing Arnold's arm, the other pulling in a perfect spiral. Arnold lost control of his center and in a blink, Ronan flipped him clean over the shoulder in what looked like an Aikido takedown. He hit the floor hard, groaning. “Pl…please don't, I'l—” Arnold started. Ronan crouched next to him, yanking down his collar. And there it was. That snake tattoo. “The mark of Lucian’s underground circle.” Ronan sighed. He stared at it, jaw grinding. “I knew it.”

But just as I raised my hand to knock on the bathroom door again, I caught sight of him through the gap between the door and the frame. The sight made me freeze. Because there was a tattoo on his right shoulder that I recognized. It was the symbol for the surname “Stone” — a name and tattoo that my parents had warned me to stay away from. Because it was the mark of one of the most ruthless and dangerous members of the underground pack of mafia — Maverick Death. Needless to say, I left without finding my cell phone — and without caring whether he heard me leave or not. ***** “You've got to be kidding me.”

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."

He turns to the bartender who came over as soon as he saw us "Get her some girly shit. Light. I'll take whiskey on the rocks" "Hey" "You're not getting drunk on my watch" I'm about to protest when he shows me the tattoo between his index and middle finger. He's trying to distract me but I'll fall for it because I'm curious "It's our tattoo. Only high-ranking members get it. Your father, Angelo, us, and a few guys have it"

The words landed harder than a slap. Rex had no answer. As the intruder was escorted out, something caught Jenna’s eye. His sleeve had ridden up during the struggle. Ink. She stepped closer, heart pounding again—not with fear, but recognition. A tattoo marked his wrist. A crimson crest. A lion crowned in thorns. Her breath caught. Spanish syndicate. She had seen that symbol before—in financial ledgers, in offshore shell companies, in the shadows surrounding Veronica’s new allies. Jenna straightened slowly, eyes hardening as the intruder was dragged away.

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.”

I was surprised seeing this part of him, When he was done, he discarded the cloth. He joined me on the bed, placing my head on his chest and covering us with a blanket. "Sleep" he whispered". "Talk to me," I said, placing my hand on his chest. He sighed "About what?" "Anything, or talk to me about your tattoos," I whispered. "My first tattoo is the Omerta in my chest—the code of silence for made men. "What do the words under it say? I can't read them.". He smirked "Obviously it is written in Italian; the words mean never take sides against the family, and the family is the mafia". I had watched so many movies about the mafia and how bonded they are, but never in my life did I ever believe I

"It's incomplete. Look at the whole thing, it'll make sense then." He bought up his other hand and I noticed a single word tattooed in the same font on his other wrist. My heart stopped. 'Dolore' I already knew what that word meant; Pain He placed both his wrists together so that the tattoo formed a single sentence; 'Ho ottenuto ciò che ho dato dolore.' "I got what I gave; pain"

The puckered, raised marks of bullet wounds on his left side and his right shoulder. He wore all of that. Survived all of that. And came back anyway. My eyes move to his back as he turns to splash Isabella back. The tattoos there are the ones I know best by now — the dark detailed work that covers most of his upper back, the designs I have traced with my fingers in the dark. And there, running down the center of his spine in that elegant script. FARFALLA. My name. My nickname. Permanently written into his skin.

His voice clipped, and I hoped to God that he was right…that my hallucinations had carried on into reality, but here I was. So I braced, and asked the only question nogging in my brain, “Did he have a uh…tattoo?” His shoulders went rigid. “Where?” His voice strained, and my heart shrank. “Some language…on his neck. Was there any tattoo at all? It was a quote…something latin…I do not know—” “Abyssus abyssum invocat,” he said slowly, face growing pale when my head bobbed. Ledger's face went pale, and a tremble started in his hands, so much that he clenched them into fists, and I felt my own teeth chatter.