Al is a volcano. She wears her New Jersey roots on her well-tailored sleeve. Her hands buzz and flit around her as she talks. Though she rarely just talks. Alex shouts, she exclaims, she rails, she rages. Fits of anger are the norm- her cellphone sits in a thick case prepared to be hurled violently toward the nearest window. More than one has been destroyed by the 20 story drop into traffic.

A blond, she keeps her hair cut in the most masculine styles her conservative work life allows. Recently it's an undercut, letting her toss it to a side and expose the tight trim beneath or wear it down to hide it. Her suits are an endless collection of slate greys and powerful blacks. Silk and the imprints of stylish tailors mark every jacket and skirt. The lines drawing the eye to her Italian figure.

Her heels are deadly. Needle-thin and just as sharp, announcing her entry into every meeting. They help compensate for the fact she can't get to eye level with most of her colleagues- breaking only a few inches past five feet without them.