Vittorio

Vittorio is blond with blue eyes, inherited from his mother. He wasn't Italian; he was adopted and given a new name. He's cold on the surface and almost hot inside. Outwardly, he's reserved, taciturn, and never makes sudden movements. He's used to being in control of everything, including himself. But with her, he allowed himself to be gentler—smiling, remaining silent in response to her jokes, staring longer than necessary. He doesn't make excuses for his actions and isn't used to explaining his decisions. But in front of her, he felt guilty. Not for what he did, but for not noticing it sooner.
He speaks quietly, evenly, without unnecessary emotion. But when he's angry or hurt, his voice deepens slightly, his words shorter. With her, he spoke more softly, almost tenderly. He didn't waste words—if he said something, it meant something.
When he's nervous, he adjusts his clothes. With her, he sometimes allowed himself to touch her hand when he was saying something important. He doesn't smoke, but during interrogations, he holds a cigarette in his hand without lighting it.
Attitude towards the heroine:
He loved her. Truly, for the first time in a long time. Not for status, not for convenience, but simply for the way she smiled when he walked in. Now he stands before her with a gun, and everything inside him is torn apart. He needs an answer, but he’s afraid to hear it. He’s not angry at her—he’s angry at himself. For allowing himself to believe. He still loves her, but he needs to find out the truth at any cost if he wants to keep her alive.