The Tattooed Man Book Novels & Stories

He pushed is large round glasses up his nose as he waited for a response. “Yes,” came the ever-familiar chorus from the audience. Jessica turned to Cara, smiling widely again like a Cheshire cat. Cara returned the smile, pulling a ‘kill me now’ face back. “Excuse me. Can I sit here?” Cara turned around to see a tattooed man pointing down at the seat next to her. The man had a black buttoned shirt on and matching trousers, his sleeves rolled up halfway partially revealing his inked forearms. She looked him up and down, noticing the detailed tattoos etched all over his skin, she tried squinting to get a better look but the man caught her gaze.

The fiery burn lingered in my throat. "Nothing's wrong with being a gentleman, but pretending to be one just to impress women doesn't make you one." I smirked, taking another swig of whiskey. I surveyed his outfit, taking in every detail. He wore a vivid red shirt left open to showcase a muscular chest inked with a roaring lion whose fiery orange mane seemed to reach beyond his skin. Leonardo. Lion-hearted. That tattoo made perfect sense. A golden cross lay nestled atop the lion's mane, glinting in the light like a beacon of faith. It was clear that Leonardo wore his heart on his sleeve. His was a tattooed visual representation of his inner fire.

the bald man snapped, his finger tightening on the trigger. James stepped back, ready to leave before the men got angrier, when a tattooed man emerged from the warehouse shadows, wearing dark trousers and a black long-sleeved shirt with one sleeve rolled up, revealing a sleeve of ink on his forearm. “What’s going on?” he asked. The two hefty men turned toward him. “This guy says he’s looking for the boss,” the bald man said, pointing at James. The tattooed man’s gaze shifted to James. His eyes narrowed when he spotted the blueprint book clutched in James’s hands.

It was in that compound that everything became clear. — THE MAFIA LAIR “Kill him,” the man said calmly, as though he were discussing the weather. “And I’ll give you the files.” The tattooed man sat comfortably in his chair, shirtless and completely at ease despite the violence surrounding him. Dark ink covered almost every inch of his body, weaving around old scars and fresh wounds alike. One of his fingers was missing entirely, but judging from the confidence in his posture, it clearly hadn't made his life any more difficult.

The front door holds my attention though, and I kick off my heels to walk over to it slowly. Their voices stop me, and I swallow my fear as I peer into the gap between the nearly shut door and the frame. The man with tattoos is standing, peeling off his shirt to expose black inkwork all over his ripped muscles. His brother, the sensible blond, leans back into the edge of the bed while perched with his shirt still on, though I can make out the indentions of his strength all the same. "You love ropework, and you can't even tie up the woman correctly to keep her from pulling down the blindfold. Very wise, Dante. Very f*cking wise."

“Right, you’ll be Alessandro de Rossi then?” “You know who I am. I didn’t ask that. I asked who the fuck you are,” I signal to Nico, who moves behind me. I can feel Enzo at my right, and Amara next to him. The man gives each of us an assessing look. His eyes are the light blue of the sky, and they give his face a ghostly appearance. Altogether I find him unremarkable to look at, except for one thing. His tattoos. They crawl up his neck, spiral out down the sleeves of his shirt and wrap over his hands. I certainly have my fair share of tattoos, as do many in my line of work.

Maybe the fact that it was on my back and I didn’t see it often, combined with how long it had been since Harry commented on it, contributed to the tattoo being nearly non-existent in my books. In record time, the man had pulled his pants back up and was blowing hot, “If any daughter of mine ever inks a random man’s name on her body, I’d disown her. Only a simp would fùck a woman while reading another man’s name off her waist like a chant.” With that, he stormed out of the toilet, slamming the door much harder than necessary. I was right; he was not a gentleman. As I fixed my own clothing, watching my face in the mirror, I could only think of how low I had fallen.

the wild fantasy in the man's mind. "Abi ...." "As far as I said I like your pussy." Damn. Moreau never thought Abihirt would say such sensitive words again, and as if she did not care, the man's mouth slowly fell to sip at the recesses of her neck after removing the long dangling strands. "I want to get my tattoo first." In just an instant Moreau could feel something disappear inside her. Still transfixed. Barely able to do anything but watch as Abihirt's shoulders began to move away. The man had gone to meet someone unfamiliar. Let her guess. A tattoo artist?

Above it: The Illustrated Man. The cover hit me hardest. It was older, featuring a heavily tattooed man sitting with his back to the reader. Against my will I bent over and with numb fingers picked up the well-worn book. Straightening, I opened the cover and turned a few pages to the blank page after the title page. Except it wasn’t blank. In an all-too familiar looping script, I read: To Emily. Live Forever! And, of course, it had been signed. By me.

Manik smiles. The white Iru enveloping him vanishes. “Harasho is the most reasonable dogma. You can say that it projects the current life.” Manik reaches into his jacket pockets and draws their contents. There are two books on his hands. A pink book with a couple smiling at each other on a heart frame on the cover is on his right hand and a red book with a short hair woman crying on the cover is on his left hand. “Which Doujin do you like, Your Highness?” Manik asked.