Klaus Hargreeves Tattoos Novels & Stories

“No.” The single word landed like a slap. He shrugged off his coat, tossing it carelessly over a leather chair, then rolled up his sleeves with unhurried precision. Intricate tattoos crawled over his muscular forearms—thorned roses, blades, elegant Latin script. Mafia ink. I’d watched enough documentaries to recognize the warning signs.

He pointed to his tattoos as he spoke. 'This is a tribute to Adrian," he said. He pointed at the tattoo that sat on the left side of his body just below his shoulder blade. It was the name Luca with a halo above it with angle wings on either side of it. Underneath it said, 'I am because you were'. "That's beautiful," I mumbled as I stood up and walked closer to him to get a closer look. "This is for Blade." On his arm was a dagger. The blade was cut in half and the word

“Not constellations of teenage girls, Ms. Cruz. Men who keep their hands in their pockets like they’re used to having something else there.” I stare. He swipes. Another clip. I'm going into a radio station, sunglasses on, hood up. Same men on the corner, smoking, not smoking, watching. My skin crawls. “You’re making this up,” I say. He scrolls back and freezes on a close‑up. It’s enough resolution to see the tattoo peeking over one man’s collar. A sigil I don’t recognize. But he does. “This one’s with the people who killed my mother,” Kael says. “They don’t watch for fun.”

Running down his spine was a tattoo of a dagger, flanked by two cobras coiled around its blade, each poised to strike the other. The crossguard was shaped into a Trinacria—its eyes hollow and haunting, its hair a wild tangle of serpents. On its three bent legs were the words etched in a stark, gothic script: Famiglia, Orgoglioso, Patria. The ink stretched over the planes of his back like a warning—Family, Pride and Homeland. He stood up, and my suspicions were confirmed—completely naked, without a hint of shame. He slept next to me completely naked—fucking naked. But before I could even start to argue or throw some biting comment his way, something else pulled my focus—his ass.

Grace long to explore it, but she respected Xan's wishes. “Grace, you shouldn’t be out here by yourself!” Xan said coming up behind her and putting his hands around her waist. Xan softly kissed the side of Grace's neck where her Gang mark was. The mark was a Phoenix and a Lion rearing on its hind legs with a harp in between them. All three gangs are represented in a beautiful coat of arms style tattoo. Xan had repeatedly told her that she did not need to have it on her neck, but Grace wanted to show who she finally was. Yes, it hurt like a bitch, but it was something that Grace truly wanted to do and her family could not be prouder.

"You'll be cleaning the secret rooms." "The secret rooms?" Sasha felt a chill of fear. There were countless rumors about the secret rooms of the Bliss Clubhouse, including whispers that "Hades," the ruthless leader of the most feared mafia and drug ring, "Hell's Gang," frequented them. Nobody had ever seen Hades' face, though some speculated that the current Hades might be a woman. The gang had been around for decades, and each Hades had a right-hand man who acted as the organization's public face. Hades always wore black masks integrated with golden dragons with red tails, the gang's symbol. Every member had a dragon tattoo, usually on a visible part of their body, while the leader's tattoo

"These were taken from a high vantage point." "I climbed a few trees to avoid being seen." "Your commitment is impressive." "Thanks, sir." He points to a photo where Dale is shaking hands with another man. "I'm not sure who that is yet, but there's a tattoo on his hand. A 'M' crossed out. I believe Dale works for him, and they're after whatever secret Hera knows." My blood turns cold as I look at the tattoo. "That can't be right," I murmur. It must be a mistake. It can't be him."

That was when I noticed the tattoos. His back was adorned with an intricate design of large black wings, streaked with delicate gold traces that shimmered faintly in the low light. The wings spanned across his shoulders and down his back, a masterpiece that was both beautiful and intimidating. They exuded a silent warning, a "do not mess with me" aura that fit him perfectly. Yet, despite their commanding presence, I felt no fear. This was Alessandro. The man who had carried me, who had stood by me even when I pushed him away. He wasn’t a threat—he was my protector.

So we killed more than one person who was involved with the Damned Forsaken. Now I have a Ravager's tattoo of a skull with a zombie raven atop of it wearing a crown, a pistol leaning against the blood-splattered skull. The zombie raven is for the Ravager while the skull with the pistol was my Damned Forsaken tattoo, and the crown is for the Death Kings. I put my spin on it so that it’s unique and easily identifiable as a crew tattoo. I didn’t mind letting the man who trained Lachlan be the one to do the work. Plus that Drogo is a Death King and the Vice President for the Death Riders MC.

I hesitantly accepted and dropped it after one hurried shake of our arms. He immediately turned his back to me and began heading to the center of the sparring ring. When he pivoted around I momentarily caught a glimpse of the back of his neck. I was taken aback when I spotted not one, but a plethora of Molnija marks, small tattoos shaped like lightning bolts coming together in an X. Each tattoo signified a Strigoi kill and was usually accompanied by our Guardian insignia upon entry of service. Many Guardians kept their hair shorter or pulled back to show them proudly. I supposed I had only seen him with his hair down up until that point, but for a moment I couldn't believe my eyes. I started