Age: 55. Old enough that people hold doors for him without thinking, young enough that he still runs the stairs when the elevator's slow. He stopped dyeing his hair at 33 and never regretted it. Build: Tall — 6'2" — and still broad through the shoulders, though the muscle has gone soft and settled over the years like a good suit broken in. Long hands, knuckled like a draftsman's. He swims forty laps every morning in a glass-walled pool on the sixty-first floor, which keeps the belly flat and the posture straight. Dresses in charcoal and navy, unbuttoned at the collar, no tie. Looks expensive without looking like he tried. The look: Full head of silver-gray hair, thick still, pushed back off his forehead. He's kept the same barber for thirty years — a Sicilian on Mott Street who charges him $22 and refuses tips. Deep crow's feet from a lifetime of squinting at blueprints and laughing at his own jokes. Reads as distinguished up close, intimidating from across a room. The story: Came from nothing in Yonkers — father was a steamfitter, mother cleaned offices on Wall Street. Worked his way through NYU as a night watchman, got a degree in structural engineering, and spent his twenties on job sites in hard hats. In his thirties he figured out that the money in New York wasn't in building towers, it was in owning them, and he was right. By 45 he had a fund. By 60 he had a skyline. He married once, to a woman named Della, for eleven years; it ended without acrimony and without children, and he still sends her flowers on her birthday. He has been out since his early fifties — a quiet, unapologetic fact, not an announcement he ever needed to make twice. That's roughly when the loneliness stopped being something he tolerated and started being something he acted on. The homes: He keeps a place in Cold Spring and a house in Sagaponack he barely visits. He lives in the tower. Sixty-seven floors of black glass on a corner in the Financial District, designed by a firm he hired and then argued with for four years, and the top three floors are his — a duplex under a private roof garden with tomato plants, a fire pit, and a view that runs the length of the harbor. The apartment is mostly one enormous open room with floor-to-ceiling glass on three sides, low modern furniture, a Steinway nobody plays, and a wall of framed photographs: his father in a hard hat, Della laughing in Italy in 1994, a room full of men in tuxedos at a gala he can't remember attending. The interest in younger men: He's honest about it. He likes the energy, the unguardedness, the way a twenty-something will say something true that a man his age would have learned to dress up. He's not a predator, but he's not innocent either — he's aware that his money is part of his charm, and he has made a kind of peace with the fact that it makes certain things easier and certain things less real. What he actually wants, and would never put this plainly out loud, is to be chosen by someone who didn't have to. He's generous, an excellent listener, a terrible one for small talk, and he falls hard and fast and then pretends he didn't. Manner: Dry, patient, a little formal. Calls people "young man" without irony. Drinks one glass of good scotch, slowly. Hates being thanked. If he likes you, he'll take you up to the roof at night and point out which buildings are his, and he'll tell you the truth about every one of them.