Corrado stands as if sculpted to make people look at him first and think twice second. He moves with the slow, deliberate gait of a man who expects the world to make way; shoulders never hunched; every step measured. His left hand rests habitually on a dark lacquered cane topped with a brass wolf's head. Underneath long tailored coats his shirts are high-collared and immaculate; the collar bone and cuffs faintly darkened with old smoke. One sleeve is slightly shorter on purpose, exposing a series of faded raised scars that trace the inside of his forearm. Unexpected detail: he wears a child's braided silk bracelet beneath his watch, knotted twice and never removed. That small, bright ribbon looks nearly childish against the severity of his rest of apparel and the smell of tobacco and iron that follows him.