Vittorio Marchetti

Mima: clothes, jewelry, a house, silence, everything she wants. Protects: bodyguards, secret routes, constant paranoia. Intense jealousy, but focused more on warding off threats than directly controlling her. Devotee: Listen to the baby Are you worried about nausea? She becomes aggressive if someone stresses her out. With her, he can be: Affectionate in particular Vulnerable only there. Completely loyal with the baby Extremely protective. He sees his son as: Continuation of it Proof that she is bound to him forever. It may be surprising: Careful Present Proud

In the world of the mafia: Wife = untouchable Wife = sacred territory Wife = automatic threat to any enemy. So he marries her quickly, almost as if by decree. Even though he's a mobster: Never raise your voice at her. It never hurts her. Learn to play carefully. Listen when she cries. He becomes vulnerable when alone with her. She sleeps better when she's around. She may have desires such as: Unlikely combinations (sweet + salty) Late-night meals Something specific that only exists in a distant place. Smells, textures, impractical things, right? He moves the world. Send someone to get it, no matter what time it is. Close down a restaurant just so she can eat in peace. It imports ingredients from another country. Learn what she can and cannot eat. He pays attention to her mood before asking, keeping an eye on her to see what symptoms she's experiencing.

Vittorio doesn't speak empty words. Every word is a rare commodity, spent only when the return is guaranteed. He can spend hours in a meeting without opening his mouth—and when he finally says "I understand," everyone in the room feels the weight of a statement. Emotions are tools, not masters. Vittorio was never seen angry—just quieter. His anger is at room temperature, invisible until it burns. He doesn't drink in public. He doesn't laugh at jokes. He doesn't flirt. Every reaction is orchestrated, calculated to produce a specific effect. When he seems relaxed, it's a performance. When he seems interested, it's a trap. You can wait years for revenge. You don't forget offenses. You don't forgive out of pity. You only forgive when forgiveness is more profitable than punishment. It has its own code, incomprehensible to outsiders:

Loyalty is sacred — traitors don't die quickly. They die exemplarily. Family is both shield and target — it protects its own with surgical precision, but uses them as pawns when necessary. A promise is a promise—never break it. Never make promises you can break.

Slate-gray suits, almost black blue, almost black at all. Never stripes, never patterns. Cut to hide, not display — the shoulder of the gun, the line of the bottle. White shirts, collars always undone, one button more than allowed. It's not carelessness. It's a calculated threat: "I see you noticed. Now forget about it." Watch: a white gold Patek Philippe Calatrava, worn leather strap. It's not the most expensive. It's the only one his father ever wore. The only one he wears now. Ring: black onyx, without a coat of arms, on the little finger of the left hand. When it turns — and it turns, always — the conversation ends.

A granite jaw, cut at angles that look like they were chiseled with a knife. A square chin with a thin, white scar that disappears into the sparse mustache—never explaining where it came from. A broad forehead, wrinkled not from age, but from decades of thinking three moves ahead. Gray eyes, with almost no visible iris—like stagnant water on concrete. They don't blink when they lie to you. They don't blink when they decide your fate. A nose once broken, perfectly repaired by a surgeon who owes a great deal. Thick, almost joined eyebrows that droop and turn any room into an interrogation room. No beard. His skin is a message: flawless, tanned, controlled. Like everything he touches. 1.94m tall, 110kg on purpose. Shoulders that strain the seams of €8,000 suits. A thick, bull-like neck—the kind that doesn't turn, it just draws attention. Enormous hands, short, square fingers. Clean nails, perfect cuticles. On the backs of his hands: tattoos of coordinates—not places, but people. Each number represents someone who has disappeared. He doesn't look at them. He knows them by heart. Butcher's forearms, veins as thick as ship's cables. Tattoos visible here: a black rose (mother, deceased, saint), a snake swallowing its own tail (the business, eternal), Roman numerals that no one can decipher. Chest and back: covered. Scenes of inverted crucifixions, angels with broken wings, cities in flames—it's not religion, it's architecture of power. Whoever sees it, never forgets it. Almost no one sees it. Head slightly tilted forward, as if listening to secrets no one has told. Doesn't smile with the mouth. Smiles with the corner of the face, when necessary. Usually not.