The fettunta con prosciutto is a sandwich in which the bread is the subject and the prosciutto is the accompaniment, not the other way round. Fettunta, literally the oiled slice, is Tuscan bread grilled over coals, rubbed while still hot with a raw clove of garlic, drizzled heavily with new olive oil, and salted. That treated slice is the dish. Laying prosciutto over it makes it open-face and turns it into a meal, but the defining fact is that the bread has been seasoned to stand on its own first; the cured meat is what you put on top of something already complete, not the thing the bread exists to carry.
The craft is in the slice, the char, and the oil, in that order. The bread is the unsalted Tuscan loaf, cut thick, and grilled hard so the surface carries real smoke and stays rigid under oil. The garlic is rubbed across the hot crust so the heat melts it into the grain rather than leaving it raw and sharp. Then the oil goes on generously, because a fettunta dressed timidly is just dry toast: the point is bread saturated with good oil to the edge of the crumb, salt drawing it together. The prosciutto crudo is laid on at the end in loose folds, its fat just slackening against the warm, oiled surface. It is open-face by design, eaten while the bread still holds its heat, before the oil cools and the char goes dull.
The variations are Tuscan and spare, and the wider family keeps its own pages. Plain fettunta with no meat is the spare standard; the late-summer version with crushed tomato is bruschetta's near relative; the same oiled slice appears alongside the split schiacciata and the broader Tuscan bread-and-salume habit. Each is a different oiled or flat bread met by one topping, and each deserves its own article rather than being crowded in here.