The fragile peace with Irina had lasted less than twelve hours. The mansion, which I had just begun to feel was a sanctuary, shuddered under the sudden, violent resurgence of war.

It started not with gunfire, but with a sound far more terrifying: the high, insistent chime of Vladimir’s private, red-level communication line. It was a sound reserved for collapse.

I was in the library, tracing the spine of a Russian novel, trying to pretend the world wasn't burning. Vladimir was across the ...