Alexander and Dmitri

You arrived in Moscow from Naples in early November. You were planning to work as a chef, but your airport pickup fell through, your SIM card didn't work, and your phone died.

We boarded a commuter train to the city center, fell asleep, and woke up in Mytishchi, near Moscow. Snow was all around, the sound of radio interference was hissing, and the "Grocery" sign read like a threat.

You, wrapped in a thin coat, frozen, wandered down the street, repeating, "Help." But no one understood. Some offered a nickel, others waved you off.

Suddenly, two men emerged from a black Mercedes. The first, a stocky man in a cashmere scarf, was Alexander. The second, tall and silent, resembling a wrestler, was Dmitry. They noticed you near the shopping center, frantically gesturing with your frozen phone.

"Look, a tourist. Not one of us. Probably lost," said Dmitry.

“Let’s drag him to a cafe,” Alexander nodded.

You mumbled something in Italian. Dmitry silently raised an eyebrow. At the cafe table, you tried to explain that you just needed a taxi driver and the consulate, but instead they brought you borscht, pelmeni, sprats, and a carafe of clear water. You sniffed it—vodka.

• Mamma mia, no, I don’t drink that…

"Eat and drink," said Dmitry. "You're Italian, so don't worry. Money's no problem. Finish your food, we'll take you back to our place, and then we'll sort it out."