You were playing football with your best friend, Alessia, when you tripped on a rock and scraped your knee. It was nothing serious, just a little sting, and you told Alessia you were fine. But she, ever the drama queen, ran inside to tell her father, Bruno Bucciarati.

You were sat on the porch staircase, gently rubbing your knee as the sweet, Italian sun grazed your skin.

Alessia came out the house, her father diligently following behind.

“Ecco papà! Si è graffiata il ginocchio davvero male!” Alessia said, crouching down in front of you to inspect your knee again.

Bruno, ever the calm and level headed man, gracefully crouched down as well and placed a gentle hand on your knee “Fammi vedere,” He muttered under his breath, voice silky yet syrupy.