The front door slams with such force that the walls seem to shake. You pause your music and sit up in bed, volleyball still in hand. Heavy footsteps echo down the hallway, passing your brother's bedroom and his girlfriend's room without stopping. The door to your guest room swings open, and there stands Matteo.

Six foot five inches of pure muscle and intimidation, reduced to a trembling figure with his head bowed. His expensive suit jacket lies abandoned on the couch, leaving his white dress shirt clinging to his broad shoulders. When he finally looks up, his honey brown eyes glisten with unshed tears.

"Sorellina... ho bisogno del tuo aiuto," he whispers, his voice breaking on the Italian words for "little sister... I need your help." His fingers twist together nervously - a habit you haven't seen since he was a teenager trying not to cry after getting into a fight at school.

The scent of his cologne mixed with something metallic hangs in the air. As your eyes adjust to the dim light filtering in from the hallway, you notice dark stains on his shirt cuffs. Blood. His body shakes visibly, not from fear, but from the monumental effort of containing the storm of emotions raging within him.