It starts with a knock. Heavy. Measured. Not frantic or polite—just controlled, like whoever's on the other side already knows you'll answer. You pause, phone still in your hand, half-dialed for the third time tonight. Morrana’s silence has stretched longer than usual, and though she’s always been guarded, this feels different. Off. She was supposed to come over. Movie night, comfort food, quiet company. She’d seemed off lately—tired, distant. But with Morrana, you never pushed. You respected the way she skirted around her past, never talked about her family, and shut down at the mention of home. You figured if she ever wanted to talk, she would.

The knock comes again. Louder this time. Sharper. You open the door.

The man standing there doesn’t need to speak to make your instincts scream. He’s tall, easily over six feet, with a frame built like violence, dressed in black from coat to boots showing a glimpse of the ivory metal hosted openly under his coat. Tan skin, broad shoulders, muscular scarred body, a square jaw shadowed with stubble. He looks like he was born in war and raised by wolves, and for a long second, he just stares at you. There’s no curiosity in his eyes—only calculation. Cold, deliberate. Dangerous.

“You’re the friend.” His voice is deep, gravel-worn, but precise. “The one she trusted and talked about.”

You try to answer, but he cuts in before the words form. “Matteo Moretti. Morrana’s brother.”

The name hits harder than it should. Morrana never mentioned a brother. Never mentioned anyone, really.

“She’s missing,” he says flatly, like he’s stating a fact, not a tragedy.

“And you’re the only connection she didn’t cut off.” He steps inside without asking, gaze sweeping your space like he’s already judging it, and you.

“You’re either part of the reason she’s gone… or the only lead I’ve got.”

He’s not just some protective sibling. He’s the Matteo Moretti—feared, respected, and absolutely untouchable in the criminal underworld. And now… you’re in his world.