Russian Prison Tattoos Book Novels & Stories

“Whoever it is sure has a style.” I scoffed. “His style is not smiling or wearing shoes, you know how the Russians are,” I replied, simply to annoy Mikhail. I knew how exasperated Russians get at that misconception, though I knew the shoe one was a lie. But I kind of believed the smiling one because the living evidence of it was standing in front of me while the other had fucked me last night. Which was the reason why I chose a tattoo of thorns and roses with smiling skeleton heads. I wondered how Nikolai would react to it.

The prisoner's black hair cascaded down his forehead and hid most of his youthful face. Enzir walked around the prisoner and noticed the slow movements of the prisoner's back as the latter breathed. The prisoner's shirt was torn at the back, exposing his unbroken skin and the mark of seven joined circles tattooed on his left shoulder blade. Enzir paused briefly to look at the tattoo and then walked to the other side of the apparatus to face the prisoner. Bending low, Enzir looked at the prisoner's face from a safe distance. "Still haven't said a word," Enzir declared, as he stared at the prisoner. The prisoner locked eyes with Enzir and then moved his arms, testing the bonds that restrained

I stopped. The tattoos I'd been catching fragments of for weeks were finally visible in their entirety, and they were — extensive. Dark ink covering both arms nearly to the wrists, climbing his chest and shoulders, wrapping around his back in patterns I couldn't fully read from here. A skull on his forearm, a snake threading through the eye socket, dark red and black. Words in Russian across his ribs — I could see them but not read them at this distance. On his chest, above his heart, a single phrase in Cyrillic I could just make out:

he bantered kicking a bottle of water on the floor making it fly to the other side of the room. “Do you have a death wish Russian?” In a swift moved I jumped over my sponsor banging his head. “You like to die, huh?” I was absorbed in my anger that I hadn’t noticed my cell door flying wide open. “So, what do we have here?” The voice boomed in my head with a blaring warning. “Kid control yourself.” The Prison Boss laughed. I cocked my head to the side letting go of the Russian’s collar. “Nothing,” I said controlling myself from running to his face and punch him. “We’re just having a morning exercise, supposedly it’s morning,” I snorted standing up.

I nodded my head, "I spent a lot of my time reading while I was locked up. Training, reading, and getting tattooed. Anything to keep out of trouble." "Did you get all of them in prison? It’s probably not allowed in a hospital to get tattooed." Izzy replied, staring at my arms. "I got most of them before I turned eighteen. My foster dad didn’t care what I looked like, but I did get some tattoos in prison, although it’s illegal to tattoo and a bit dangerous. It’s not really clean in prison, and there's a higher chance of infection. But I hardly ever get sick anyway, so I was fine."

Yet here he was, drawn like a moth to the one flame that could burn his whole world down. Inside the cell, inmate Zion King lay sprawled across the narrow bunk in nothing but a pair of threadbare gray prison-issue boxers that rode low on his hips. One long, muscular leg dangled lazily off the edge, the other bent at the knee, foot planted flat against the thin mattress. The harsh light carved deep shadows across his body, highlighting the intricate tapestry of tattoos that covered his chest, arms, and torso like a map of every sin he’d ever committed. A coiled serpent wound its way up his left ribs, fangs bared. A crown of thorns encircled his thick neck like a promise of pain and power. And

Eight years later. The prison gate opened with a heavy metallic sound. Alexandro De Luca stepped out for the first time after 2,920 days. The air outside felt strange in his lungs—too clean, too wide. His hair was shorter, neatly clipped, but his skin was much darker from the prison yard sun. His arms, neck, and even parts of his back were now covered in tattoos—not decorations, but records of the years he'd spent behind walls: dates, names of those who had died, and one small sentence in Italian beneath his collarbone that only he understood.

Who had that been, and why did something about her feel so…familiar? It didn't matter anymore. She was gone, and what were even the odds of me crossing paths with her again? I focused on the situation at hand, something that I had control over. When I looked at the prisoner, I saw that her warrior tattoo was on full display, planted onto the skin of her arm. “She has refused to tell us anything all this while,” said Clara, looking annoyed. And I can't use any other torture techniques without doing serious damage to her. Suddenly, the prisoner cackled, throwing her hwad back as though she had just won a trophy. “You'd be better off just killing me because I'm not going to tell you anything,”

He wasn't wearing anything except a small towel wrapped around his strong hips, hanging down to half of his muscular thighs. His hair was still dripping with water; it seemed he hadn't dried himself. He must have sensed someone was in his room. Then that tattoo caught me off guard. I froze as my eyes fell on it; on the left side of his chest, exactly above his heart, was my name. Yeah, it's my name. My name was there: Mila Russetti. With a trembling finger, I traced the name and read what was written beneath it in a smaller font: never forgive you.

“Ten years. Maximum security. Lucky you.” I smirked. “Depends on your definition of lucky.” Heller’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t bite. He just jerked his chin toward the wall. “Stand there. Hands flat.” I obeyed, palms against the cold concrete. They patted me down—again. My cuffs rattled as they checked my ankles, my waist, my shoes. Like I was hiding a weapon somewhere. “Clean,” the first guard muttered. Heller scrawled something in the file, then finally looked at me properly. His gaze lingered on the tattoo inked across my collarbone—black wings stretching toward my shoulders. “You’re gonna stand out in here, Rhoades. Men like you… they get noticed.”