In January 2003, we're plunged mercilessly back into the twisted universe of the Sixers and the Matadores, the new rival gang headed by Ross. Thus, as the finale of the first season led us to believe, the wolf is not dead. His disappearance, supposedly planned with the help of his friend Dan, was only a necessary hiatus. Gone to ground somewhere in the southern part of the United States, Ross has restored both himself and his forces, the better to confront Bob Durelle, whom he henceforth considers to be his sworn enemy. It's the latter who provokes the beginning of the hostilities. In a gesture of unusual violence, he kills Dan, which has the effect of putting an end to the wolf's reclusiveness.

It's interesting to see how Luc Dionne developed Ross in the second series by emphasizing the path of vengeance. In doing so, he gave direction to his (Ross') life. As he couldn't make him a different man, Dionne concentrated on the spirit and soul of Ross by searching for the motive that would be sufficiently powerful that he would allow himself to survive, even if only temporarily. Following the death of his wife, Ross slowly emptied himself of all that he had been, and so well that there remained only the shadow of a man. Practically speaking, Dionne had no other choice but to let him disappear. If there had not been a sequel to the Last Chapter, Ross would have died without passing into posterity. We would have kept of him a vague memory of a biker who had one day made the mistake of wanting to quit the ranks of a criminal organization at the cost of his life. Period. Ross deserved better. Without exonerating him of all blame, it would have been unjust for Bob to manage to get out of this business and not him. The author thus offered his two heroes a second chance while remaining faithful to the destiny of each and seeing to it that there was no redemption for anyone. But he altered his point of view. The framework of the story and the camera drew closer to the protagonists. Now they scrutinize the details, focusing on gestures and glances, thus digging into the hearts of these men so as to expose to the light of day their true nature.

In Bob's case, we notice that throughout the intrigue, what he gains in power, he loses in loyalty. Those close to him, the men in his confidence, all of them deceive him. His wife Karen will leave him, taking with her the biggest part of his spoils, while Lenny, his right arm, secretly allies with Roots (the Quebec chief of the Sixers) to hatch a plot, the goal of which is to exterminate him. The Italian Mafiosi withdraw their support from him and turn towards Ross' group to do business. Judases all. Pride, his pathological need for power, his egocentrism and his viciousness alienate all those who were tied to him by interest or love. Even destiny is set against Bob; his son Jonathan will die in his place, killed by the bullets of Ross' men, without, however, the latter being aware of it. A cruel fate that Bob has evoked by his actions, earning for us one of the strongest scenes in the series, a father-son Pieta magnificently interpreted by Michael Ironsides.

As to Ross, he remains, from the beginning to the end, on a quest for a form of deliverance. Totally given over to his grief, incapable of pulling out of it, he stalks his prey, seeking to finish Bob and himself with the one blow. Ross has suffered all his life, and aspires more than ever for a liberation that doesn't come. That's why it's necessary to consent to follow him without passing judgment, without wanting to explain and to understand everything. Even if morally we would wish another kind of life for him, we must watch him live with his choices. What he says to his mother, he expresses equally to us: "Mom..Mom, no one has given me a break in my life. Any breaks I got, I made them" If Dionne is applying himself to define Desbiens' feelings with more precision, Roy himself delivers for us a Ross in whom moral suffering has worn away every scrap of his inner self. If his bearing, his presence and his charisma have remained intact, his spirit has become colder and more calculating by trying to protect what remains of the gentleness of his soul.

His features are hardened. The bangs he wore on his forehead are now long enough for him to comb back and tie behind, thus exposing his whole face, leaving all the space to his eyes. Terrifying eyes filled with anguish and hatred. A gaze which has forever lost faith and hope in happiness. A gaze which is no longer hazed over with sorrow. It is chiseled, carved, sharpened, like that of birds of prey. A gaze which is often too clear, whose color is drawn from his clothes. Everything he wears fades onto his irises. Infinitely pale when he wears blue, they pass from charcoal to green. A damned green that causes dizziness. These are the eyes of a devil. It is the harshest gaze Roy has given any of his characters, and its murderous light is painful to see. Sometimes watching him becomes almost intolerable, as during his encounter with a journalist.

Ross arranged to meet this man so that he would write an article about the Matadores. They are at a table facing each other, David between them. The journalist asks his questions. He keeps going on about the reaction of the Sixers to the appearance of Ross' gang on their turf. Irritated, Desbiens growls his responses. The more the journalist tries to find out something about the establishment of the Matadores, the more parsimonious Ross is with his answers. The subject slides again onto the reaction of the Sixers. At that point Ross passes from exasperation to anger. He fixes his gaze on that of the journalist. The tension mounts a notch, but is defused by David, who takes over the questioning. Ross looks away and sighs with impatience. Seeing that the idiot of a pen-pusher won't let it go, Ross leans toward him and smites him with his eyes and his voice: "Listen to me. We're just a group of guys who want to have fun riding our bikes with our friends and our families. We don't need a fucking boss to do that! Fuck, but you're weird! Always the same bullshit. You see someone with a patch, he's got to be a criminal. Christ, what is criminal about riding a bike on a country road!" As he speaks, he keeps the other in his field of vision, not leaving him the smallest opportunity to shift his gaze. Ross' gaze exerts such pressure on the journalist that the latter, hypnotized and terrified, is practically dying in his chair. He's saved by David, who turns Ross' attention to something else. Ross will turn that staggering gaze on someone on two other occasions, in circumstances that are particularly painful for him. There is in these moments such ferocity, such a furious fire in his eyes, that we can no longer measure which part is hatred, which madness. Simply, we are under assault from within , and the only possible reflex is to flee from this visual aggression that pierces you to the inmost depths of your soul.

The other part of Ross that is profoundly altered is his voice. Ross never had a soft voice but it was warm whenever he was with Wendy. Right now, it carries the same scars as his heart. It's become heavy, hollow, not really deep but rather, guttural, rough, crammed down in the bottom of his throat. Cavernous. There no longer exists any lightness in his heart or in the timbre of his voice.

Thus from the beginning of the second series, without feeling either joy or sadness for him, we meet a Ross who has been brought back from among the dead. We are content simply to know that he is alive, and curious to see how he will come out of the vendetta between him and Bob. Between the fox and the wolf. Between two thirsts: one's thirst for power, the other's thirst for vengeance. They are going to confront each other in this way over the course of these six hours, each of them drawing on his strengths, in remarkable duels that feature no physical confrontations between them until the final episode.