Russian Prison Tattoos Book Novels & Stories

“Don’t do this, please!” My left hand wrapped around my right forearm, covering the tattoo that marked my place in the pack. Beatrice and others were shouting, but the guards had reached me and took my arms in their hands, revealing the tattoo to the sun and to Olivia as she approached me, poker held high. “Hold her down!” she commanded, and the crowd began to shout now that this was wrong and not how things were done. While burning off one’s pack markings as a sign of exile was the punishment for treason, that happened after a trial and was done carefully in the clinic under anesthesia to prevent infection. It was meant as exile, not torture or a death sentence.

And if he had connections to the senator and government, he surely knew more powerful people than me. “You know Boris better than anyone,” he replied back. “And Russia is your home country. Nobody knows that country better than a born Russian… even if it’s a Russian Sinner,” he muttered exasperated, referring to the nickname people had given me, Nikolai, and Sergei. “I don’t care if you are guilty or not; I just want my daughter back.”

Russian's POV A man in his late forties stepped into the basement, his bald head gleaming under the dim light. A tattoo of a fierce scorpion snaked from his neck to his scalp, marking him as someone not to be trifled with. His body was a canvas of ink, displaying various tattoos that told stories of battles fought and won. He dressed sharply, with a few buttons of his shirt undone, exuding an air of relaxed authority. He walked with a noticeable limp, leaning on a sturdy walking stick that seemed to amplify the aura of danger surrounding him.

A blood red pocket square was perfectly folded in his front breast pocket giving him an air of old-world charm. A glint on his finger caught her attention and she tried not to stare at the giant ruby in the gold setting that sat on heavily tattooed fingers. In fact, both his hands were heavily tattooed, much of it in Cyrillic script she couldn't read. As her eyes trailed up his broad chest, she saw more tattoos at the opening of his dress shirt that snaked up the sides of his neck. The tattoos were the only thing that would distinguish him from any other rich entrepreneur having dinner in a place like Opus. She suppressed a shiver of excitement at the thought of seeing more of the ink that w

It was stripped from me forcefully without remorse. I reached the warehouse where one of Russo's men is. He was hanging from the ceiling with chains from one hand and another, same with his feet. The twins are busy giving him hell as he won't give up any information about who was Russo's allies. Dante is situated near the door, I approached him ''Fratello eventuali aggiornamenti" (Brother any updates?) He shook his head, "Sembra che abbiano giurato di non tradire mai la loro famiglia. Avevano un tatuaggio sul braccio sinistro. Potresti non vederlo più a causa del sangue che bagna il suo corpo." (They seem to have sworn to never to betray their family. They had a tattoo on their left arm. You

What have I done so wrong in my life to deserve this kind of fate? By the time the drug was finally wearing off, the door open. A strange man came into the cell. I couldn't tell if he was the same one who beat me though I thought he was much capable of doing it too. He looked like that Russian wrestler my fucktard of a dad love to watch: bald, shiny head with bulging muscles and a dragon tattoo in his right arm.

He whispered and bought the girl. When he returned home, he saw it facing the mirror and holding a ballpen. "What are you doing?" He approached it and saw its hand with a drawing. "I want to get a tattoo." It said innocently. "You know, you're crazy." She said and Amira laid the ballpen down next to her. "I want something like that." Pointing it at his arm and where else. A rose with thorns is the tattoo on Lucy's wrist. "You want a gangster look too?" Lucy asks here. "Why do you look like that?" Questioning it. "Having a tattoo means, freedom. You don't care what other people say. By the way this is an art." He said and took off his T-shirt and showed his tattoos on his chest. "This, this,

he said grandiloquently, swatting at the air with his hand. I grinned. “Well, it would be different if you had cool ones like Viggo’s.” “Oh, you’d rather I spent three years in a Russian prison,” he said, slowly nodding his head like I seeeee. “No,” I laughed. “I mean, it would be cool if you had your life story in tattoos.” “I do.” I gave him a Bullshit look. “No, really,” he said. “I mean, not exactly like the movie, but – basically, everything I love. Look.”

If he looks closer, he might start to see all the cracks on my surface. “That tattoo on your inner thigh, was it Mikhail’s work?” Those words feel like a slap in the face and a shiver runs up my spine; he’s seen it. He’s seen the one thing that made me feel even more worthless than before. Held down by his men, Mikhail decided to tattoo those vile words on my inner thigh so I could never escape. And even if I did escape, no man could ever want me with that brand on me. “I-” “You don’t have to answer me,” he cuts me off and takes a sip of his glass. After this, servers walk out with dinner plates and our conversation stops.

His patchwork, spirally blue and black tattoos are barely legible thanks to the myriad burns left from trying to escape his silver-lined prison. We are a miserable threesome. Every day is the same starving agony. Ronan lays on the single bed, Howen has a metal bench, blanket and pillow. Ronan’s stumps face me. Blackened and charred with fleshy pink. They turn my stomach yet in a room of grey they are the only thing to catch the eye. My cell is directly next door to theirs. I dare not venture close to the shared bars except when the food is brought for fear of Ronan and his insanity. I pulled my bed over to the furthest corner for fear Ronan would try to touch me whilst I slept.