Vittorio Bronzethimble moves with the casual assurance of a man who knows every corner of the city’s underground. Standing barely 3 feet 4 inches tall, his rotund figure is dressed in sharply tailored, jet-black pinstriped suits embroidered with subtle golden threads that catch the light at angles. His hands glitter ostentatiously with chunky gold rings, each inscribed with the crest of a faction or a prized victory, while a heavy, finely crafted gold chain rests over his ample belly. What makes Vittorio unforgettable is the odd contrast of his weathered, wrinkled face—lined deeply like a gnarled oak tree to show decades of hard dealings—and the unexpectedly soft, almost tender, blue gaze beneath bushy silver eyebrows. His small, nimble fingers always fiddle absently with a worn poker chip tucked behind his ear. His gait is measured but with a lazy sway, as if he’s always calculating how to pull the strings in the game ahead.