Chapter 7
Roxy
Aweek in Bar Harbor, and I still can’t sleep.
The studio apartment smells like old paint, ocean air, and the walls are too thin.
Across the street, a bar called The Last Clam hums with life every night.
Music, laughter, and the clinking of bottles fill the air.
It seeps through the cracked window along with the salty wind, reminding me that I’m not home, not really.
If you’d told me a month ago that I’d be working for a man like him—living in a borrowed apartment over a bakery with a neon sign that flickers until dawn—I’d have laughed. The plan was to stay with Kat, but she killed that quickly enough. I shouldn’t be surprised.
Mom keeps texting me, excited about Bar Harbor. She doesn’t have to say it; I know she’s imagining a future here if I decide to settle in.
I can’t complain. The pay is more than good. It’s…criminal.
Or at least, the things I’m overlooking are.
How else could Mr. Medvedev afford to pay me this absurd amount for taking meeting minutes, tracking his schedule, and updating him on anything his managers, Jesse and Lauren, reach out about?
It’s only temporary, I tell myself with my eyes pressed shut under the comforter. Just until I find something better for Andi and me.
By day, everything feels ordinary enough.
I wake early, make cheap coffee from the tin on the counter, and drive fifteen minutes inland to Ursa Arcane’s headquarters; which is also Makari Medvedev’s home.
To me, it looks more like a fortress.
The compound sits behind high iron gates, a sprawling property of glass and stone hidden by forest. At the center, the main house rises like something from another century—columns, terraces, balconies draped with ivy.
Beautiful. Intimidating. The kind of place that makes you straighten your shoulders before you even step out of the car.
Most of my work happens inside the administrative wing when Mr. Medvedev doesn’t need me: coordinating communications, drafting press releases, making sure the company’s charitable arm looks as polished as it is profitable. It’s exactly the kind of work I’m good at—clean, quiet, behind the scenes.
Except there’s nothing clean about this place.
There are too many guards. Too many locked doors and coded elevators. Even the air feels guarded.
And him—Mr. Medvedev.
He’s everywhere and nowhere at once.
I see him in passing, at meetings, crossing the main hall, standing by the windows with that stillness that makes everyone stop talking for a beat too long. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t need to. People bend around him like gravity.
Sometimes I catch him looking at me the way a predator studies its prey. It’s torn between devouring or ignoring.
It does something strange to my pulse.
I tell myself it’s nerves. That it’s the stress of starting over, not attraction. He’s significantly older than me, at least into his forties, the silver at his temples telling. But there’s no doubt that there’s strength under those tailored trousers and safari jackets.
The first time I hear it, I’m in the staff kitchen pouring coffee. Two men stand by the window, their voices low, but casual.
“The Bear’s in a mood today,” one says.
“Yeah, shipment delays again. Wouldn’t want to be on the other end of that call.”
When they notice me, they both go silent.
I smile politely, pretending not to have heard. But the nickname echoes through me all day, stirring something deep and wild I can’t explain.
The Bear.
It should sound ridiculous, but it makes my heart pound instead. I take a moment to dip into an alcove and text Katherine.
Did you get me into something dangerous?
The “read” indicator pops up. But no dots; she doesn’t respond, so after a minute I add furiously: Want to explain why a legitimate businessman would have a nickname like The Bear? Or should I call David at the office and ask?
That gets me a response. Not a text—a call.
“What are you doing, Roxanne?” she hisses. Glancing down the hallway, I tuck further into the alcove. It’s impossible not to feel like this is taboo; this conversation, this topic. “Can’t you just accept a pile of money and play dumb?”
My face goes hot at that. I’ve never liked being called dumb, even if it’s a warning that I should be dumb in this instance.
“No. Not if this is something bad, Kat. Is he mafia or something?” I whisper.
My sister’s laugh is jarring. “Does he look Italian to you, Roxy?”
It’s a stupid question. I’ve heard the accent behind his commands and the Russian spoken on the compound. For a long moment there’s silence between us, and then Kat sighs. “Just do what you have to for a bit, okay? You’re a momma bear, aren’t you? Do it for Andrea.”
Inside, my moral compass twitches.
“Give her a kiss for me.”
I hang up abruptly, not caring if Kat is offended. If she and David got me into something…
No. I can’t think about it that way. I pocket my phone and step back into the hall.
I am almost late for the PR meeting regarding Ursa Arcane’s donation to The Nature Conservancy.
I should listen to Kat, keep my head down, work long enough to settle Mom and Andi somewhere, and then pursue my masters.
I shouldn’t keep digging; not with a bear so close by.
But something deep inside me twinges as I look out the windows lining the long hall. Out in the forest, men in light tactical gear are murmuring to one another in another language and doing little to hide their firearms.
By Friday, I walk the grounds on my lunch break, hoping it looks like I am just out to stretch my legs and get some fresh air. I know I shouldn’t be nosing around, but it feels like I’ve stepped into a fairy tale that’s gone slightly wrong.
Mr. Medvedev, if we were face to face, eyes locked, would see the lie in me. He’d hunt it out from the shadows.This is the one thing that makes me feel relieved that Andi is in Cambridge.
The gardens are manicured to perfection, every hedge and flowerbed deliberate. The paths curve toward a conservatory of glass and steel that gleams brightly in the sun. Birds chatter in the pines and water trickles from a fountain shaped like a roaring bear.
I pass the dining room on my way back in. The long table inside gleams with crystal and dark wood, and staff are clearing away dishes from some earlier meeting.
That’s when I see it. A ring.
It’s gold and heavy with a carved pattern of claws and Cyrillic script sitting to the left of a half-empty glass at the head of the table.
I don’t touch it, but the sight of it sends a cold rush through me. I’ve seen it before, years ago. I pull my gaze away.
By the end of the week, I’m exhausted. I tell myself it’s just an adjustment period of long hours and the pressure of proving myself. But part of it is missing Andi.
Every night, we talk before bed.
“Mom, when can I come see your new house?” she asks tonight, her voice small over the phone.
“Soon, bug,” I say, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I’m looking at a few places tomorrow. I’m still in this little tiny apartment.”
“Is there a beach?”
“Not like Chatham,” I admit, smiling. “But there’s a river. And woods. You’ll love it.”
“Okay.” A pause. “I miss you.”
I close my eyes. “I miss you too, sweetheart.”
When I hang up, the silence in the apartment feels too big. I scroll through listings again until one catches my eye—a small bungalow north of town, right on the river.
Close to the estate.
Closer than I probably should be.
Saturday afternoon, I meet Donna, the realtor, in front of the place.
It’s perfect in that imperfect way I like: chipped paint on the porch rail, overgrown garden, sunlight filtering through pines. The river runs just beyond the backyard, wide and bright. I can hear it from the driveway.
“This one’s a gem,” Donna says, flipping through her folder.
She’s in her fifties, short and cheerful, the kind of woman who looks like she’s never met a stranger.
“Two bedrooms, one bath, full basement. It’s been on the market a while, so the price is negotiable.
Unfortunately, the owners were elderly, and the kids like the city. ”
Inside, the house smells faintly of cedar and lemon cleaner. The floors creak; the kitchen’s small but functional.
For the first time in years, I can actually picture it. Andi’s art supplies on the table, her laughter echoing down the hall, mornings by the river, and mom sitting out on the porch with a cup of tea.
“I could see us here,” I admit.
Donna beams. “It’s a great spot. Quiet, but not too isolated.”
We step out onto the porch again, and she leans on the railing, gazing toward the water. “You know, this stretch of the river used to be nothing but old fishing shacks. Then the Russians moved in.”
I blink. “The Russians?”
“Oh, sure.” She waves a hand as if it’s common knowledge. “Mafia money, sweetheart. Don’t let the fancy talk fool you—Bar Harbor’s got its claws in all sorts of business. How could it not? Money attracts sharks.”
I try to laugh it off, but it catches in my throat. “There’s a Russian mafia?”
She gives me a sideways look, one that says, Aren’t you na?ve? Then she smiles, eyes crinkling. “Sure, the Italians are known for it, but there are plenty of crime syndicates out there. Especially in remote places. Fewer eyes to see the crimes, you know?”
“Do they really have that kind of presence here?”
Donna shrugs. “Let’s just say there’s a reason the biggest estate on this river has gates high enough to keep out God himself.”
My pulse jumps. “Which estate?”
“You’ve probably seen it,” she says, lowering her voice like it's gossip. “The Medvedev compound. His family’s been here for decades. Everyone called his dad ‘The Bear.’ Now it’s just him, I think.”
The words hit me like a punch in the stomach.
The Bear.
But Makari’s father is gone. I’ve picked up on that much thanks to Lauren’s gentle guidance and the beautiful portrait in the front hall.
My mouth goes dry. “You mean Makari Medvedev?”
“That’s the one. Owns half the town through shell companies. Some folks say he’s dangerous; others say he’s a saint. Depends on which side of his claws you’re on, I guess.”
Donna laughs lightly, but I can’t seem to join her. My thoughts are spinning too fast, pieces falling into place all at once—the guards, the locked rooms, the ring, the whispers.
The Bear.
That night, back at the apartment, I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the ceiling until the light from the bar flickers out.
Makari Medvedev.
The Bear of Bar Harbor.
I work for the Bratva. At least that’s what my phone tells me the Russian mafia is called. It’s not as if I could ask anyone.
I press my palms to my face, heart thudding. It sounds impossible, but everything fits.
David’s company handles the estate’s financials. The endless money, the hidden security. The way Medvedev looks at people like he’s measuring how much truth they can stand.
I should quit.
That’s the obvious answer.
But I think of Andi and the stability I could finally give her, the school she deserves, and the house on the river. Moving Mom out of Cambridge and having enough financial stability to pursue the job I actually want.
For once, the future doesn’t feel like something I have to survive. It feels like something I could build.
I understand why people look away when they should run. Sometimes, danger looks a lot like hope.