The Alps were a wall of white in our rearview mirror, a fortress of ice that had finally let us go. We didn’t leave in a private jet or a sleek black SUV. We left in a battered, salt-stained Land Rover driven by one of Leo’s silent technicians, crossing the border into Italy under a sky that had forgotten how to be angry.

Leo Moretti had stood on the runway as we boarded, his silhouette a sharp inkblot against the snow. He hadn't offered a handshake or a vow of brotherhood. He had simply ...