Read Online Russian Tattoos Obsession by Kat Shehata - Free Book Online Page B

occasion to see either of them with their shirts off, but I was dying to know what brand of evil they had inked on the rest of their bodies. Every single image I found had a specific meaning. Star tats on the knees meant they would bow down to no one, stars on the shoulders meant they were high ranking members of a prison gang, and a knife tat like the one Boris had on his neck meant he had killed someone in prison and was available for hire—a hit man.
    A lot of the images I found were, oddly enough, beautiful in their own way. The old school tats featured Russian cathedrals and monasteries on the bearer’s back, and were given to convicts during the Soviet era. Each spire represented how much time or terms the prisoner had served. Boris probably had a lot of ornate bulbous towers engraved on his skin.
    After I had my fill of the tats, I searched Russian organized crime in Brooklyn, because Dad had said Vladimir had lived there at the same time we did. It turned out an entire community of Russians immigrated to Brighton Beach near Coney Island. According to multiple websites, it was a hub for Russian organized crime.
    The crimes associated with the Bratva ranged from drugs, prostitution, illegal gambling, and the usual offenses one would expect from the criminal underworld. Then, I stumbled on to something much bigger associated with the Russians—highly sophisticated cybercrimes and widespread scams led by the super intelligent ringleaders.
    These Russian masterminds had implemented brilliant banking schemes as well as tax and insurance fraud. And supposedly they were behind Internet hacking cases that were so well planned and executed, many of the people involved had scored millions and millions—without ever being caught.
    Well, it didn’t take a genius to figure out where Boris and Vladimir landed on the Bratva pie chart. Boris headed up the traditional way of doing business, and the boss led the intelligence side of the new technology-driven Russian mafia.
    After I absorbed all the information I could stomach, I dragged myself out of bed and got ready to face the Russians. Boris would King Kong on me if I failed to report to him after practice. Skipping work was not an option.
    It would have served me well to have forced down a protein bar or a shake before tennis practice, but I wasn’t of sound mind. Rakhi and I held strong and wouldn’t give up our crowns in an intense queen-of-the-court drill. Slamming balls was therapeutic. We stayed alive round after round, but when I went for a wide backhand shot, my legs gave out. Down I went. Coach tossed me a sports drink and asked what was up. I blew the whole thing off like he was overreacting. I tripped over my own feet, I explained.
    “You’re weak.” He glanced down at my shaky hands. “The pressure of playing on court one getting to you? I can knock you down to three if you need a break.” I knew he was more concerned about me , rather than my tennis game, but the words “knock you down” still stung.
    Coach had been a pro at the club for twenty-plus years. He’d handed me my first racquet and taught me how to swing when I was in grade school. I’d played for him at the junior level, all through high school, and I’d found my way back to him in college. Court one was reserved for the top players. It was the most revered spot on the team, a competitive pressure cooker, and I would never let anybody knock me off my doubles pedestal.
    I chugged the Gatorade and assured Coach everything was fine. I knew I looked like hell, so I said I needed to rest. He let me go, but I wasn’t convinced he bought that excuse either.
    Now—because of the Russians—I was bleeping on Coach’s fuck-up radar. There was no way I would let the boss and his locked-and-loaded sidekick screw up my court one status. As I marched to the car, I assessed my situation.
    Vladimir wanted to spend time with me , but I didn’t give a damn about him .
    If I had my way, I would walk away