Prologue – A Journey That Is Never Neutral
In the Val d'Orcia region, where rolling vineyards look like a Renaissance painting and the sun falls softly on Neoclassical villas, stands a small house that stands in stark contrast to the splendor of its surroundings. It is Villa Acqua Chiara, owned by Alessandra Moretti, the only daughter of Italy's most influential political family.
At the other end of the same region, the Moretti family's main villa stands tall and busy: the place where political meetings are held, where her siblings conduct business and party strategy. They call Alessandra “La distante”—the distant one. But what they don't know is that Alessandra isn't just staying away for the sake of peace: she's staying away to protect a name they've never allowed to be present.
Leonid, her son, is now eighteen. Tall, calm, and far too mature for his generation. He attends the Collegio Internazionale Santa Caterina, where the children of diplomats and elite heirs gather—a school known not for its facilities, but for its rigorous character training and social strategy.
Monday, 6:48 a.m.
Alessandra prepared a simple breakfast: mocha coffee and rosemary toast. In the dining room, Leonid sat in his blazer and tie, dressed with military neatness. He was reading an email from school.
“They’ve decided,” he said quietly. “I’ll be Santa Caterina’s delegate for the winter diplomatic program.”
“Where?” Alessandra asked, though she seemed to have guessed.
Leonid looked at his mother. Then said, “Moscow.”
Alessandra stopped pouring coffee. The sound of the old clock on the wall ticked louder in the silence.
“Are you sure you can handle that?”
Leonid nodded, but there was tension in his eyes. “I can’t avoid it forever. The world moves, and I’m part of it.”
At school, 10:35 a.m.
Leonid attended a diplomatic preparatory session with five other students. They studied etiquette, analysis of international relations, and the history of foreign policy between Italy and Russia. One of the teachers, Professor Giuliani, mentioned the names of Soviet-era intelligence figures, economic bloc strategies, and post-reform tensions. For Leonid, it wasn't theory. It was a fragment of his family history.
In the garden behind the school, Sofia and Marco caught up during recess.
“Moscow? Seriously?” Sofia asked, worried.
“It wasn't just a school assignment, was it?” Marco added, sitting down.
Leonid smiled faintly. “We all have a city waiting for us to return to, even if we've never actually lived there.”
At Villa Acqua Chiara, 5:12 PM.
Alessandra was reading an old file from 2005—documents about a working visit to Russia that had never been publicly reported. There was a name there. Tucked away in an unofficial list. Mikhail Antonov. She stared at the blurry old photo, then closed the folder.
And as if summoned by the lingering tension, the sound of car wheels could be heard from outside the gate.
Mikhail arrived.
He didn't carry a suitcase, he didn't greet her formally. Just come in and stand in the living room, waiting as usual.
Leonid came down from upstairs. Don't rush, but don't hesitate either.
"Moscow. Next week." he said directly.
Mikhail looked at his son. "I know. They contacted me."
“You'll be there?”
"Not close. But enough to be on guard."
They sat in Alessandra's study. The evening was long: discussions about government systems, about unmentionable people, about the past that still lives behind the old walls of Moscow. No crying. No hugs. But there is a look that reinforces each other.
"I didn't go looking for my father," said Leonid quietly. “I went to recognize the half of myself that was never taught.”
Mikhail replied, "You are not half of me. You are a new version of something that failed in my generation."