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“It’s a tattoo shop,” I say, turning the laptop toward him. “Here.”
He squints at it and takes a swig of his beer. “Damage Control?”
“I know, right? We’d fit right in.”
He chuckles. “So that’s where Kash got his tats? In Madison?”
“Looks like it. If he comes from Chicago, that’s not a stretch.”
“He was young when he got them.”
I shrug. As long as we know close to nothing about Kash’s family, there isn’t much to say. “Maybe his folks were dead by then? Maybe his guardian didn’t give a fuck.”
“Hm.” West scrawls through the images of tats and people posing by the entrance of the shop. “Could be.”
“I’m gonna call tonight. What about you? Did you have any luck with your searches?”
“Well, yes and no.”
I scowl at him. “None of that cryptic shit, Weston. Yes or no?”
“Gimme.” He yanks the laptop out of my hands and types something in the search engine. “I tried to cobble together what we know. It’s not much to go on. Russian background, fighting, Wisconsin, family dead. His age, if he told the truth this time around. I keep hoping Syd will find something we can use in that damn journal. Anyway… I found this. Take a look.”
I haul the laptop back to my lap and scan the article. “Chicago mafia underground fighting…” I glance up at him. “What’s this to do with Kash?”
“Read on, dickhead.”
“Russian mafia controls the underground fighting ring. Blah blah. What’s this, West?”
“Jesus, you have no fucking pati
ence.”
I shrug. “Not one of my strong suits.” I read on, West looking over my shoulder. He throws an arm around me, and his hand taps a rhythm on my biceps.
It’s damn distracting.
“After the death of the Hammer,” I read out loud. “Hammer? What the hell? After the death of the Hammer and a slew of other ex-fighters, the underground ring went through a time of chaos before Andrei Vasiliev stepped in.”
“See? Russians, fighters, killed.” West huffs out a breath. “See the connection?”
“Maybe.” I stare at the screen, not seeing it. “Vasiliev.”
It rings a bell deep inside me. What was it about that name?
“Know what? You’re right. Maybe it has nothing to do with Kash.”
“It’s quite a leap,” I mutter. “But something tells me it’s worth looking into.”
“You think so?”
I rub at my temple where a steady throb has started. Fuck, no migraine tonight, please, God. “Yeah. Is it too late to call the tattoo shop?”
“Doesn’t hurt to try.”
I click back to the website of Damage Control and punch the number into my cell phone. I put it on speaker for West’s benefit.
He still has his arm around me, his hand tapping along my biceps.
