Page 12 of Bears Not Included

The blue peeling paint of the kitchen cupboards and the thick checkered cloth that drapes over the table add to the overall charm. Four chairs are situated around the table, where four plates, four bowls, and four sets of cutlery lie. Bernard, Barrett, Bruin, and Goldenia.

It feels as if I’m on the inside of a museum. It was as if some passionate, rich, and eccentric collector had taken the same version of the story my mom had read to me and replicated each image into life. How else can what I’m looking at be true?

A strange feeling washes over me then. I hug myself and rub my hands down the opposite side of my arms. I can’t shake the feeling that the house looks both lived-in and not lived-in.

There’s not a speck of dust collected through neglect in a house this old, but there's also a comfort about it that gives the illusion of it being inhabited. Which is weird because that would mean someone actually lives here...

My gaze ventures further into a passage that would undoubtedly lead to the bedrooms.

Oh no.

At once, I realize I’ve done exactly what Goldilocks, in any version of Goldilocks and the Three Bears, has done.

She entered a house that wasn’t her own, and while I didn’t snoop around, break their chairs, eat their porridge, and or fall asleep in their beds, I still committed a crime.

I quickly spin around and head for the door. I should have knocked, and when no one answered, I should have come back later. Feeling dreadful for invading a space that wasn’t mine, I reach out and turn the doorknob.

My brain registers two things. The knob on the inside is the face of a bear, and the second thing is that no matter which way I turn the handle, the door doesn’t open.

Chapter Seven

Mason

It’s not about the destination; it’s about the journey.

Callen says he’s going to put that on my tombstone. He’s pretty certain he’s going to outlive me.

I like that sentiment, though. It applies to me. I like the chase—the journey—more than the destination. Bad men give off a different flavor of fear than innocent people do. I can tell the difference, and it makes the hunt so much more exciting when I’m chasing someone who deserves to die.

I glance at the men sitting on either side of me. We’re matched stoicism for stoicism; our masks of ennui checked in place at all times. They’re my brothers-in-arms, these men. Deacon Walsh and Callen Andrews. Men who know me better than I know myself. The men I would die for without question or hesitation.

To the world, we’re the owners of Ursid Enterprises—a legitimate multi-billion-dollar company—but at night in the dark, we’re the heads of the Ursid Syndicate, and that is truly more who we are and where we belong.

There’s a thing called the Global Underground Six, a round table where all the world’s crime kings gather and rule the universe. We own 29% of the table’s votes. The Mexican cartel has 18% and the Bratva 15%. The rest of the votes are taken by the Japanese, Chinese, and Irish.

Suffice it to say that nothing happens without it going through us first.We’re mob bosses. Crime lords. The Mafia. Kings of Chaos. Untouchable and answerable to no one. Our initiation as heads of the syndicate wasn’t easy either. You can’t expect another man to kill for you if you haven’t done it yourself. That’s just one of the Ursid mottos.

The syndicate first made us killers, then kings. Deacon, Callen, and I survived the initiation unscathed. We’re the Ursid Syndicate, and for the first time ever, grossly underestimated.

Flustered and annoyed that we’re unimpressed with the mauling and then eating of a woman by a bear, Kirill Yenin moves us out of the arena and into what he calls his private rooms, where we can talk business. This fucking idiot.

The irony about the bear does not escape us, but I think it escapes our host, stupid man.

Dropping the purchase of The Chryus though got our attention, so points for Yenin.

The old me would have still liked to give him an hour-long head start in the pretty forest outside the house that he turned into a monstrosity before I hunted him down for being plain fucking annoying.

Hell, the old Deacon would have snapped his neck the instant he opened his fucking mouth and uttered his first word, waving his gun at us as if it were some sort of emotional support device. Instead, I’m not in it for the hunt anymore, and Deacon can’t even bring himself to kill Yenin, even out of pity for being stupid.

Deacon and I are going through some stuff right now. Thank fuck for Callen. Right now, he’s the only stable one among us.

I clench my fists surreptitiously, and the scars that have faded over time from my back, and that haven’t bothered me all my life until now start to throb as if I were six years old all over again. Fuck.

I wish I hadn’t taken that call. I wish I didn’t know. And now, everything I am feels like a lie.

“This is my… eh... private room,” Yenin says, gesturing with his hands, although even that is a half-assed attempt since he constantly has to rub his nose. Perhaps I’m not completely broken after all. If there’s one man who could bring me out of my killing rut and existential crisis, it might be Kirill Yenin, after all.

A series of lanterns illuminate the room, while thick, heavy curtains dangle from the ceiling. His bodyguards, all ten of them, follow us in and line up against the side of the wall, embarrassingly heavily armed.

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