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.
