Chapter 4
Makari
Six Years Later
The road winds through the mountains like a silver ribbon under the bruised glow of dawn.
Mist clings low to the trees, blurring their outlines into ghosts.
Every few miles, the SUV cuts through a pocket of fog, and for a moment it feels like we’re driving through another world entirely—quiet, suspended, untouched.
When I was a child, this was my favorite drive: going home.
I’ve always liked this hour, though I’ll never admit it aloud. The world feels newly made, stripped of noise and sin. Even the ache in my chest eases just a little when I see the light spreading over the peaks. A new day.
Paul sits across from me, his lined face lit faintly by the rising sun. He’s been watching me instead of the scenery, the way he always has. Guarding, measuring. After all this time, he still hasn’t learned that I’m not the sort of man anyone can save. That I don’t want to be saved.
“This is the first sunrise I’ve seen you sober,” he says finally, his tone soft, but not surprised. “I almost didn’t believe it.”
I roll the unlit cigar between my fingers, resisting the urge to light it. “You think I can’t do it?”
“I think it’s been a long time since you wanted to.”
He’s right, but that doesn’t mean I’ll admit it. “It was time,” I say simply, looking back at the glass. “The drugs, the drinking—they didn’t bring him back. They only made the ghosts louder.”
Paul leans back, nodding slowly. “Seven years is a long time to keep punishing yourself. And you’re not getting any younger, Makari; if you didn’t stop now, the drugs and drink would have destroyed you.”
Seven years. The number echoes in my skull, cold, and absolute.
Seven years since Pavel Medvedev went over a cliff in the North Woods, chasing a goddamn moose through fog so thick you couldn’t see your own hands.
The story’s been told a hundred ways since then—some call it an accident, others whisper sabotage.
All I know is that one moment he was the Bear of Bar Harbor, and the next, I was standing in his office trying to fill the space he’d left behind.
The truth? I haven’t filled it. Not yet.
“Did you ever believe it was an accident?” Paul asks carefully, reading my face the way only he can.
“I believe my father was too proud to die any other way,” I answered. “He spent his life hunting. I suppose it’s poetic that something wild took him in the end.”
Paul hums, not convinced. “Poetic,” he echoes. “Or convenient.”
My jaw tightens. “We went over this, Paul. If someone pushed him, they’d be dead by now.”
He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t have to. We both know I searched for answers for months after Pavel’s death.
I threatened, bribed, and bled half the underworld for a whisper of truth.
But every lead turned to smoke. I buried the man who raised me without knowing whom to blame.
And maybe that’s why I still drink in his memory, even when I swear I won’t.
Until today.
“After tomorrow,” I say, glancing at him, “you’ll be gone.”
He smiles faintly. “Retired, yes. Not gone.”
I snort. “You’ll vanish into some suburb with your wife, spoil your grandchildren, and pretend you didn’t spend thirty years watching men die for secrets. That’s gone enough.”
Paul shrugs, an easy smile on his face. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is,” I reply evenly. “You were the last one who knew him. Knew me before.”
“Before what?”
Before everything. Before losing my father, yes, but also before I started waking in the middle of the night, haunted by a memory that shouldn’t mean a thing—a girl in white, trembling beneath my hands. Before I decided that maybe the only way to kill grief is to become it.
But I don’t say any of that. I just look out the window and let the silence fill the car.
I’m forty-two. It’s terrifying to think that someday, I’ll be older than he ever was—if I’m lucky. I didn’t let myself be put down by an exhausted liver or dirty needles. If I go out, it’ll be on my terms, and in a way that he wouldn’t be embarrassed of.
Bar Harbor appears like a secret unveiled.
First, the curve of the coastline, then the pines, black and endless, then the Medvedev estate rising from the fog.
The mansion is carved from old stone, framed by woods so thick they muffle the sound of the river beyond.
My father built it here to remind the world where the Bear came from: the wilderness. It’s not a home so much as a fortress.
When the gates swing open, I exhale. The car rolls to a stop in the circular drive as gravel crunches beneath the tires. Paul looks out the window for a long time before saying, “It’s strange. I thought I’d feel relief leaving this place behind. Instead, it feels like I’m abandoning you.”
I reach for the flask in my jacket pocket out of habit, then stop halfway. Instead, I slid it across to him. “Take it. I’m done.”
He stares at the flask, then back at me. “You mean that?”
“Yes.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “My father’s legacy deserves more than the wreck I’ve been. Ursa Arcane was his empire. I intend to make it mine.”
“By going clean?”
“By staying dangerous,” I correct. “Clear-headed enough to rebuild what was lost. There’s a difference.”
Paul nods slowly, but his eyes are heavy. What was he expecting? For me to ask to go with him, to that little suburb? Live some idealized life I don’t deserve?
“You’ve always been dangerous, Mak. The question is—dangerous to whom?”
I grin without humor. “We’ll find out.”
When I step out, the cold hits instantly—salt air off the water, damp earth, pine.
The estate stands silent around me. The river glinting silver through the trees.
Somewhere deep inside, I feel the ache of what once existed here: laughter, footsteps, the echo of my father’s voice. Now it’s just the echo.
A second SUV pulls in behind us, men unloading crates marked with the discreet sigil of Ursa Arcane—a stylized bear claw burned into the wood.
To anyone else, it looks like booze shipments.
To me, it’s power: firearms, jewels…whatever goods are being ferried north for the syndicate.
Business is thriving again, but it’s not enough. Not yet.
Paul joins me at the base of the steps, squinting against the rising sunlight. “What’s next?”
“Expansion,” I say simply. “Maine to Montreal, through the border routes my father never finished. I’ve already spoken to Morozov in New York. He’s willing to move under my banner if the shipments keep flowing.”
Paul whistles low. “That’s a risk.”
“So is stagnation.”
He studies me for a long moment. “You sound like him.”
I let that hang between us. There was a time when I would’ve taken that as an insult. Now, I find I want it to be true. Maybe it’s a way for me to feel like he’s still here.
We start up the stairs together. At the top, he pauses, hand on the rail and says, “Before I go, I need to ask something.”
“Ask.”
“Will you ever settle down, Mak?” His tone is careful, almost fatherly. “Find someone? Your father had a family. A legacy beyond business.”
I stop at the door, hand on the latch. “Love isn’t legacy. It’s leverage. And I don’t intend to hand mine to anyone.”
He exhales, disappointment softening his voice. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I know,” I say quietly. “But it’s the truth.”
He gives a small nod, then extends his hand. When I shake it, it’s firm, final.
“Take care of yourself,” he murmurs.
“You too, staryy volk.” Old wolf. The nickname makes him smile faintly before he turns away, walking toward the waiting car.
I watch until the taillights vanish down the drive.
The estate is silent again, but not empty. My men move like shadows through the morning mist, carrying boxes, locking gates, checking weapons. The rhythm of work steadies me. Routine is power. Power is control. And control is the only thing I still trust.
Inside, the study smells of cedar and old smoke. My father’s portrait hangs above the fireplace—broad-shouldered, stern-eyed, the Bear who built the empire I nearly destroyed. I pour a glass of water instead of whiskey and raise it toward him.
“Time to earn it back,” I murmur.
For a moment, I imagine his answering smile—the one he rarely showed, but that meant he approved.
Outside, the first rays of sunlight hit the river, turning it to gold, and for the first time in years, I feel sober in more ways than one.