Russian Prison Tattoos Book 소설 & 이야기

Russo knelt beside me and took my hand. "Signora, I'm so sorry," he said, tears in his eyes. "I have no equipment, no medicine. Nothing." "Then use your hands!" I grabbed his collar. "Do anything!" "I can't risk it. It's not sterile, I have nothing to stop the bleeding—" "Enough!" Elena suddenly snapped. Two guards walked in and grabbed Dr. Russo's arms. "Miss Elena said 'enough'," one of them grunted. "No!" Dr. Russo struggled. "She needs a doctor!"

“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.

Feeling even more confident, I moved my hand to the russian script tattooed high on his chest, my fingers brushing against the hard muscle there. "What does it mean?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. He was quiet for a moment, his eyes watching my face. Then he spoke, the Russian words rolling off his tongue with a dark, beautiful grace. Before Axel, I never believed that Russian was the hottest language a man could speak, but in this position I couldn’t agree more. He translated, his voice a low rumble. "Tame the devil. Charge the beast. Don't take your eyes off the angel."

Chapter 206: The Heat Before the Cold Valerio’s POV The cell was a concrete box carved out of permafrost. No window. No heat. Only the low hum of a single bulb behind a metal cage and the constant drip-drip of condensation somewhere in the dark. My wrists were raw from the chains. Blood crusted where the steel had bitten deep. The graze on my side had stopped bleeding hours ago, but every breath pulled fresh pain across my ribs. I sat with my back against the wall, legs stretched out, forcing my mind to stay sharp. Petrov would come eventually. Or Anya would. Someone would want to gloat. Someone would want to break me. They would get neither.

The Volkovs were unchained and hosed down with cold water, their naked bodies shivering as guards scrubbed them clean with rough efficiency. Dmitri’s massive frame glistened, his wolf tattoo stark against his skin; Natasha’s curves gleamed, her defiance muted; Yuri’s scars stood out, his glare venomous; Alexei trembled, glasses gone, looking smaller without his tech. No clothes were provided, Vincent saw no need. They were led, dripping and bound, to the private room where the aphrodisiac-fueled orgy had first broken them, a king-sized bed and Vincent’s throne-like chair waiting.

They start at his collarbone, with dark ink disappearing beneath torn fabric with its heavy lines that looks deliberate, not decorative. There’s no random symbols, this wasn’t some sloppy work, One curves along the slope of his shoulder, disappearing down his arm in clean, confident strokes. Another peeks out near his ribs, partially obscured by blood, the edges sharp enough that even injured they look intentional. These are not cheap prison tattoos. These looks older and expensively done by a good tattoo artist. I’ve seen enough bodies to know the difference. His build is lean but solid with muscle packed tight under his skin like he’s been training for some kind of war, his muscles weren’t

In the seven months, she had been in that prison; no one had ever touched her; it was impossible that. Colette opened her eyes enormously as she concluded that the only person with whom she had shared intimacy was her great love Donel Dunn, a mercenary who came unannounced into her life. She immediately cleaned the baby with her worn clothes, looking for some glass to cut the umbilical cord. "Bibi, I need something sharp," she whispered. Tiredness was getting the better of her- Bibi. The mentioned one was still in shock on the dirty floor, looking at the whole scene with her mouth open; she couldn't understand how a living being had come out of her friend's body that, instead of gaining weig

The figure lolls its head to the side, and when the torchlight hits the person just right, I can make out the tattoo below their ear. An intricate crescent moon with the letter E interwoven in dips and swirls. “NO!” I exclaim, banging on the glass in front of me when I see a naked Nikolai strung up and bloody, the silver shackles searing his wrists. He has large gashes all over his chest, and I can catch the little glints of silver in between the cuts. His body is slick with sweat and his breathing is coming out in short wheezes. Why is he here?! What the hell is going on?!

Others hold skeletons, long-forgotten prisoners of whatever nightmare existed here before Lucien. But at the end— A large cell, different from the others. The bars are thicker—reinforced steel, at least five inches thick. The air around them hums with something unnatural, something powerful. A prison meant to hold something dangerous. Something like me. My breath catches. And then I see her. A figure sits against the back wall, her head lowered, her body still. She’s muscular, her skin covered in black tattoos, the symbols swirling across her arms, her chest, her throat—ancient markings I don’t recognize.

If it was possible, I would prefer to be imprisoned alone. The guards who brought me to this awful place left, and I was left alone with the prisoners, and the guards in charge of the prisoners and the prison. “Argh”. I placed my hand on the back of my head after someone threw something like a small rock at me. “Hey, newbie!”. A man yelled at me, and I turned to him. Unlike my jumpsuit which had long sleeves, his own didn't have a sleeve at all. It looked like they had been torn, and both his arms were covered with tattoos.