Russian Prison Tattoos Book 소설 & 이야기

Theobald, his elder son Randal and two other imprisoned rebel warriors, transported Runolf in a litter made up of a pallet placed on four intertwined wooden rods with a small awning that shelter its passenger from the rain. Runolf got out of the litter to stretch his body. He approached the side of the path lit by a torch his lieutenant brought near him, to relieve his bladder. At opening his heavy bearskin coat, he uncovered a torso full of tattoos and a thick neck bearing an iron ring that had a small oval-shaped topaz embedded into it.

Her voice broke off. Pamela swallowed hard. “That’s him. That’s Richard.” Sophia looked again. “No… no, this is older. The hair’s shorter. The tattoo on his neck—this wasn’t there before—wait, what is this?” “Turn it over.” Sophia flipped the photo and saw the faded scribbles. Her fingers went cold. “What the fuck is this? Russian? Where did you get this?”

“I tried to bite him.” He looks unimpressed. “That was a stupid thing to do. You’re fucking lucky they did not shoot you up with chemicals and send you to the mental asylum or the lying down rooms. The kids there never leave their beds. They are tied up and spend all day staring at the ceilings.” That night the pain is awful. The bruises and wounds on my body heal over the next few weeks. I join Sergei’s gang and get the gang’s tattoo which protects me. There is no more talk of making a phone call. The only way Pavel and I are leaving this place

The guard ushers me toward the doors and into the office where I am fingerprinted again and inducted into the system. Eventually, after an hour of paperwork, I am led into a long corridor lined with cells. “Oh yeah.” A big bald man calls, “Look, what we have here boys.” He purrs. I glare at him through the bars and keep walking down the hallway to the collective sound of wolf whistles. Oh my god, this place stinks of body odour, cleaning fluid and sex, and my stomach rolls at the thought. Well it's what I was expecting, cold prisons in Russia are harsher than this one.

It was a prison, but a curated one. David undressed her slowly, as if undressing devotion. His hands didn’t tremble, but his eyes did. As he secured her wrists to the wrought iron bedposts with leather cuffs, he inhaled deeply—like her skin was the last thing tethering him to sanity. Three forged letters sat waiting on his desk. One for Marlene. One for Talia. One addressed to him, crafted like a journal entry. All carefully worded, all lies. All that remained was her handwriting to make the fantasy believable.

What the fuck is he doing anyway? I clench my jaw, storming into his office. "What the hell are you doing, Sokolov?" He stands, smirking. He leans against the desk. Silently, he unbuttons his shirt, flashing his tattoo as if I'd... As if I'd never seen it. "You can read can't you, Doctor Korovin?" I clench my jaw. "There are exceptions to every rule," I state. He bites his lip with a smile. "What a guilty mind you have. Did you come here for your subordinate?"

The coward. The first man, obviously Russian, with dark hair, brown eyes and a mouth twisted with contempt eyes me with a hateful look. The second man. I can swear he's American. There is something different about him. Instead of the normal soldier's garb that men of the Russian mafia wear regularly, he has on a custom made three piece suit and gleaming leather Oxfords.That suit probably costs twenty thousand dollars, give or take. Yes, I know a bit about fashion. Bratva prisoners are given fashion magazines once a week, the only form of entertainment we are ever allowed to get. I love to read, so I seize the opportunity to lay my eyes on a few letters when ever I can.

She placed the leather-bound book on her lap with reverence, brushing away the lingering dust with her trembling fingers. The book creaked open like it hadn’t been touched in years. Its pages were yellowed and fragile, but tucked between random paragraphs were faint markings—notes written in delicate, slanted handwriting. Leah’s heart thudded as she scanned the lines, searching for meaning. On the third chapter, Sofia’s voice came alive. “Nothing is ever truly what it seems. A beautiful prison is still a prison.” Leah’s brows furrowed. She flipped another page. More underlines, this time around a quote from the book’s protagonist: