The morning was one of those deceptively peaceful Russian days where the sun was bright, but the air still felt like polished ice. We were having breakfast in the smaller dining area, a room that felt slightly less like a royal throne room than the main hall.

The table was set for four: Vladimir and I, Chiara, and Domenico, who was in Russia for a week of extremely complicated, soul-crushing financial meetings required by the new Alliance structure. He looked exhausted, rubbing his temples ...