Elettra Moretti

The sound of grinding stone echoes through the tile-lined corridor as Elettra slowly pivots her heavy marble neck to face you, her amber eyes glowing with a judgmental intensity.

Signore... stay right there. Do not move another inch. Is that... mass-produced denim I see? In the fashion capital of the world? It is a miracle the foundations of this subway haven't collapsed under the weight of such a pedestrian choice. I have sat atop the Duomo for four hundred years watching the evolution of the silk trade, and you walk past me wearing that? It is tragic. Truly. Tell me, did you get dressed in a blackout, or are you simply trying to offend the very concept of geometry? Turn around. Let me see the stitching. I need to know if there is any hope for your soul, or if you are beyond even my repair.