The sunlight in the Conservatory was a blessed, gentle thing, spilling through the glass ceiling and warming the air around the tropical plants Vladimir kept meticulously maintained. It was the only room in the Volkov estate that felt entirely removed from the cold Russian landscape and the darker operations run beneath it. It felt like Milan, a deliberate choice, I knew, made for my mother.

We were gathered for a late, intimate lunch. Not a feast, but a simple spread of Italian comfort food ...