The rooftop terrace was encased in specialized, heated glass, offering a stunning, silent view of the snow-dusted city lights sprawling beneath the Russian night sky. It was late, almost midnight, and the house was utterly quiet. We were wrapped in thick blankets, sharing a single glass of rare, complex Italian wine.

I traced the rim of the glass with my finger, feeling the deep, settled contentment that had become the normal background noise of my life. The fear was gone, replaced by the ...