Thirty: Niccolo Capaldi

Thirty:

Niccolo Capaldi

There was a field outside of Milan where, when we got there, the private jet had arrived for us. My pilot was waiting outside of it along with the flight crew. “Mr. Capaldi,” he said, “what the hell happened? Why are you covered in blood? Where’s the old man?”

“Giuseppe’s dead. My brothers been kidnapped. And Audrina Bianchi is a traitor I just don’t know to who or how.”

“Fuck.” The pilot ran a hand through his hair. “Well, that’s quite the way to start a Monday morning. Where to?”

“New York. Make sure it’s a private airport, if you know what I mean.”

I had hold of Daniela’s hand as I led her onto the plane. She’d been quiet for the whole drive. So had I. It wasn’t easy to be able to drive when you were constantly looking over your shoulder every five seconds to see if someone was following us. But it seemed that Audrina and her people were long gone.

The blood from my father had dried on