Money Hustle Gambling Tattoos の小説・ストーリー

’ She then checked the other guy and found a tattoo in his nape: the tattoo is a symbol that belongs to a mafia who was known for human trafficking and slave trade. ‘Goodness, they are really out here for the trophy, blood, and money.’ She thought to herself as she readied for another round of fight with a new set of opponents. With a push of the button, a stronger electrical surge enveloped the baton. And with just one hit, any enemy will fall paralyzed to the ground.

They were just giving each other a high five; Ash felt relieved. The man introduced himself to Ash as “Fernan.” He was their driver. Ash glanced at his hands and saw that he had tattoos on his knuckles: hearts, diamonds, clubs, spades. The tattoos were all in black: the symbols for the suits in a deck of cards. This man was built like an MMA fighter and he had casino tattoos on his knuckles; he seemed physically overqualified to just be a driver. Ash thought Fernan likely provided security as well. Ash smiled and introduced herself; she didn’t want to be rude. She wasn’t sure she was supposed to or if that was considered tacky, but Hunter didn’t say anything and didn’t seem to mind.

I like the name, and out of curiosity, I enter. It's a haven for degenerates— a place where drugs are consumed like food, gambling is treated as a routine, and sex is a palatable offer even the devil can't resist. A dark grin clouds my face as I take in the tattooed touts, smoking, inhaling coke and meth while gambling with glazed eyes. Women lurk around them, barely covered as they give blow jobs, touch themselves for the guys to watch, or make out with each other, their musk blending with the smoke and drugs in the air.

She had the phone of the man she blackmailed doing her dirty work. Unknown to many, gambling is also one of Caroline's hobbies. But unlike usual gamblers, Caroline is there hunting for people she could make her puppets in doing her dirty works. She has money to burn from her family, but she wants to hang out in places like casinos and gambling houses for reasons like she had today.

I didn't give him an answer right away and I stared at his tattoo on the right side of his hand, I wanted to suck Jake's penis so badly and I also want him to fuck me without me using my VIP black card, but I will let him scan my black card after he fuck me. "You're a member of a freemason, that tattoo is some sort of a freemason sign," I replied and I couldn't help but feel a little bit nervous even though I knew that whether my answer to him was right or wrong, I would still get a chance to have him. "I'm afraid you need to take me to your friend now." Jake smiled at me and handed me the glass of vodka, which means that my answer was wrong for the third time. I could do nothing but took th

She didn’t like it and almost threatened to sue me for making her customers love me and bailing on her. But hey, I had to make some tough calls to make my tattoo business dreams come true, you know? Gotta hustle for what you want in life, even if it means leaving behind a killer coffee gig. My tattoo shop was much more of a killer though. It made me a lot of money too. I’m actually pretty rich.

A familiar ache tightened my chest. But I refused to cry. Tears were a luxury I couldn't afford. I collected every shard and sealed them in a velvet pouch. The last of my illusions about Miles, now just broken pieces. The next morning, I walked into the best tattoo parlor in Chicago. "I need a cover-up," I told the artist, a man known for his dark, gothic style. He glanced at the small 'M' on my lower back. "Covering up a name?" "It was a mistake," I said, my voice flat. "I want a black phoenix. Rising from ashes."

The hoodie draped loosely over his head, obscuring his face, but the flicker of city lights occasionally illuminated the sharp lines of his jaw and the hints of a sinister smirk playing on his lips. The wind picked up, a fierce breeze whipping across the rooftop and causing the hood to flutter. As the fabric shifted, it revealed a chiseled, muscular torso adorned with intricate tattoos, each line telling a story of violence, power, and mystery. Prominently displayed on the left side of his chest was a large, bold tattoo—the words *Nosce Hostem* inked in a jagged, menacing script that seemed almost to pulse with life against his skin. The tattoo, a clear message, spoke of a deep connection to

“Grandmother despises schemers. When she finds out you’re the reason I lost my inheritance, she will make you pay. I promise you that.” “I’m the reason?” I scoffed. “That’s rich, coming from you.” “At least I have true Moretti blood in my veins!” Dante suddenly thrashed, trying to get up. “You’re nothing! You’re just a cheap—” His words were cut short. In his violent struggle, he tore the sleeve of his hospital gown. I saw it then—a black tattoo on his forearm. The design was distinctive: a double-headed eagle with Cyrillic letters beneath it. My heart skipped a beat. That was a Bratva tattoo. The mark of the Russian mob.