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Franky cleared his throat. “We vetted him, donna.”

My heart jumped to my throat. The voice in my head yelled at my cheeks to stay cool. If they darkened, if they heated, the men would scent it like the ravenous hounds they were.

“Let me make myself clear.” My voice grew tight, anger leaching into it to keep back the burst of warmth. “The man—Jaxon—was out on a run. He saw Jason Fallone in a drunken stupor when I stopped to deliver the family a meal. Jaxon jumped in to help—”

“Jason Fallone is dead.”

Michele’s words made me choke on my spit.

“Dead?” I repeated.

Michele nodded soberly.

“Good riddance,” Donnie said, but he crossed himself for protection against evil spirits. “That fool had it coming.”

“He did,” Franky agreed.

“Cause of death?” I snapped.

“Hit and run. He was in no man’s land. They think it was gang-related. The fucker went to buy drugs, didn’t have the dough, and was run over. But no one is owning the crime,” Michele said with a shrug.

Good…that was good.

While it was one thing for Jaxon to crush his hands for hurting his wife and coming after me, murder was another level.

Is it?Was the brutality it took to seize a stone and beat flesh to a pulp that far away from taking a life? Jaxon’s eyes had gone hard, the wild fury consuming him that day.

“Alright, and what did you find on Jaxon?” I faced first Michele, then the shifting Franky.

“He is staying in the apartments on 7thAvenue—”

“The Bellevue or the North Ridge?” I clarified.

“The Bellevue. Paid in cash for a month. He gave notice yesterday, turned in his keys, and left.” Michele ticked off the information on his fingers.

He…left?

No! Just…no.

Where are you?I clenched my molars. The pressure from holding back the screams in my mind created an instant headache. His visit didn’t feel like goodbye; I foolishly thought it was the start of something! I had no way to contact him, to demand an explanation.

“They said that his last name is Fields.”

“Jaxon Fields,” I mused.

Somehow, that didn’t fit.

“Isabella,” Michele said carefully, leaning forward. “There is no Jaxon Fields.”

It was a great effort to keep the surprise from my face. With a level voice, I asked, “What do you mean?”

What aren’t you telling me?

“The man doesn’t exist. No background other than a driver’s license. No record of birth—”

“Although aJacksonField—spelled differently—died in ‘87,” Donnie added. “He used to live on 10thAvenue. In one of the bungalow houses.”

“Donna Isabella, you must be careful,” Joseph intoned.