The trek back to the mansion was a blur of swaying pines and the rhythmic thud of Gotti's heartbeat against Anita's ear. He didn't speak. He carried her as if she were a prize won in a bloody war, his fingers dug into her thigh with a bruising possessiveness that screamed of a man trying to convince himself he was still in control.
Inside the jacket, Anita was a mess of contradictions. Her body was humming, still vibrating from the sheer, primal violence of their encounter, but her mind was cold.
Surrogate. The word echoed in her skull like a lead bell. If Gotti had seen the woman who birthed Nero—if he had watched her through the pregnancy—then who was the woman in the drawer, the one who looked so beautiful, the one Maribel had talked about?
'Believe your intuition, Anita. Nero is our cub. Now we have Creed, we can get answers,' Nova murmured, her voice weary but steady.
