John Wick Latin Tattoo Novels & Stories

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.

a deep voice called. I turned around and saw a tall, bulky man with a combed back, brown hair and dark eyes. He smirked and stepped closer. Only then did I notice a tattoo peeking out from beneath his partially unbuttoned white shirt—thorny vines crawling up to his neck along with a few words written in Latin. “I'm Giulio, and you look like you can use some male company,” he went on, his eyes drifting down to my cleavage.

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

When those people came closer, Lucia saw their appearance clearly, and a strong despair appeared on her frosty face. The five people in the lead were dressed in black, and each of them had a clear six-pointed star tattoo on the right cheek, which was the symbol of the Tattoo Organization. The leader was a tall, thin and gloomy middle-aged man. He had only one right eye, and his left eye was covered by a black eye patch. His name was One-Eyed Jack, and he was the leader of the Tattoo. Jack was just an alias, and no one knew his real name and background. He was currently the tenth prisoner on the Interpol wanted list.

The sight of his fear makes my heart ache for him. "I can't, I took an oath." He stands off the bed and lifts his shirt over his head, muscles in his arms flexing as he does so. His smooth toned body greets me and I suck in a breath, my eyes roaming his body. He points at a section on his skin, ignoring my burning stare. A tattoo is inked across his chest. "Do you see this?" He asks me quietly and I nod, having studied it plenty of times before. "It translates to brother in Spanish. I got this when I joined the gang years ago. Every gang member has to get it, Amil brands us all. Once we have it, we're brothers. You don't leave your brothers."

"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.

He seemed to be wide awake too, judging by the way he breathed. I pulled away and propped myself on my elbow, trailing my hand up his stomach and over his hard chest. I looked down at his tattoos, studying the dark imagery he wore across his skin, a scythe from the undertaker, a phrase in Latin, the Roman numeral for five, all kinds of stuff that made sense to him and no one else. He watched me stare at him, moving his hand up to brush my hair out of my face. “You’d look hot with ink.”

"Be nice. He was just doing what you said." "Yeah, but I was doing something a whole lot more important." Thomas rubbed a hand over his head as a tiny glint of sunlight highlighted the tattoo on his upper arm and shoulder. Instinctively, I smoothed a finger over the intricate design. "What does this mean?" Thomas flexed his bicep, glancing at the tattoo. "Which one? I picked three Greek symbols and combined 'em." "What's this one?" I ran my finger around the dark circular pattern. Goosebumps rushed over his arm as he stared at my lips. "Strength."