MAFIA PART 2 | Avian Kuznetsov

Therapists. Physiotherapists. Nutritionists. Doctors. An entire elite medical team had been assigned to her just a day after their wedding—three months ago now. It had all happened swiftly, without ceremony. The moment the vows were exchanged, the moment she became his wife in name if not in heart, the process began. The same team that once tried to save Nicole, tried to stitch back what was broken in her too.

His father had ordered it. Whether it was guilt or a newfound tenderness toward the girl he now called his daughter-in-law, it didn’t matter. Avian hadn’t asked questions. He didn’t need to. All he cared about was the outcome.

But so far, they had failed.

Every strategy, every session, every whisper of hope that she might come back to herself—none of it had touched the darkness in her mind. Her body, yes. That was healing, slowly but steadily. She followed the nutritionist’s plan. Her appetite, while faint, had returned. The doctors had managed to repair her wrist, resetting the bone that had been shattered out of punishment. She could grip things again—though she avoided knives.

But her voice...

It never returned the way it once was. It was still hoarse, brittle, like something half-alive. The girl who had once shouted, fought, screamed bloody murder now barely spoke above a whisper. It was like her strength had been caught in her throat and refused to come back out.

Three months.

Three months of watching her tremble at the sound of doors opening. Of seeing her jerk awake, drenched in sweat, her throat raw from a scream she hadn’t couldn't let out. Three months of him learning her triggers, even when she never spoke them.

Loud voices. Cold floors. Sudden movements. Touch.

It broke something in him every time she flinched. It shattered something deeper when she cried. But what truly undid him was the way she tried to hide it.

She never sought comfort—never turned to him. She cried into her pillow like it was a sin to be seen grieving. She curled in on herself when startled, like she had to take up less space to survive.

And Avian... Avian didn’t know what to do with the ache that lived in his chest now.

He, who had broken her. He, who had left her in that hell. He, who now stood at her side like a ghost chained to the damage he caused.

His hands had once threw her in hell. Now they shook when they hovered near her, aching to soothe but too afraid to touch. He didn’t deserve her forgiveness. He didn’t even dare hope for it.

But he would give her everything he had—every doctor, every ounce of money, every second of his own life—just to see the light return to her eyes.

Even if it never would. Even if all he could do was sit beside her in silence. Even if the only redemption he’d ever find... was helping her find peace.

The soft click of the door was enough to make her flinch. Avian froze in the doorway, heart twisting. She sat on the edge of the bed, her frame smaller than it should’ve been, knees pulled to her chest, fingers curled into the hem of her shirt like she was bracing for something. Always bracing.

He hated that she did that. He hated even more that it was because of him.

“Just me,” he said quietly. His voice barely above a murmur—he’d learned the hard way that even tone could be a weapon.

She didn’t respond, didn’t even look at him.

The team had come and gone earlier. The therapist with her soft, hopeful smiles. The nutritionist who monitored her weight like it was a lifeline. The physiotherapist who worked on the stiffness in her wrist with clinical care.

They were trying to save her. And failing.

Her body was healing, slowly but surely. She ate—small bites, picked over with hesitation, but she ate. Her wrist, once mangled, was now straight, scarred, but functional. She could write again. Hold a cup without dropping it. The basics were coming back.

But her voice—

It hadn’t returned the same. She didn’t scream anymore. Not really. She rasped. Croaked. Sometimes nothing came out at all. It wasn’t just the belt that had crushed her windpipe—it was everything. What they’d done to her. What he’d let them do.

What he did.

She shifted when he stepped closer. Her spine straightened like an animal sensing danger. Like she wasn’t sure what part of him she’d meet today.

“I won’t touch you,” he said, barely breathing the words. “I just... wanted to sit.”

Her gaze slid to the window, not him. But she didn’t say no.

So he lowered himself to the edge of the armchair across the room. Not the bed. Not too close. Just close enough to watch her blink slowly, tired, numb.

She rubbed her wrist absently, fingers ghosting over the scar.

Avian’s hands tightened into fists on his lap. He forced them open. Slowly. Steadily. Breathe in. Out. He’d trained in cages, fought men twice his size, shattered jaws and cracked ribs without blinking. But this—

Watching her suffer.

This was the only pain he’d ever felt that made him weak.

“You ate today,” he said softly. “That’s good.”

She gave the smallest nod. Her eyes didn’t meet his. They rarely did.

And still—he stayed. Every night, he stayed. Sometimes in silence. Sometimes listening to her breathe through nightmares that tore his insides apart. Sometimes she woke up gasping. Sometimes sobbing.

Sometimes, she whispered his name, like it was poison. Other times, like it was the only thing left in her mouth.

He didn’t deserve that. Didn’t deserve her.

She had been destroyed in his hands—and now he was trying to save what he broke without a clue how to fix it.

“Three months,” he whispered, voice thick. “Three months and I still don’t know how to make this right.”

Her lashes fluttered. A tremble in her lower lip. Not a word passed her throat. Maybe it couldn’t. Maybe she was afraid it would break if she used it.

He leaned forward, elbows on knees, palms together. “They’re doing what they can. The best doctors, therapists... I’ll keep bringing more if that’s what it takes.”

Silence.

He swallowed hard.

“You don’t have to forgive me,” he said. “I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t even look at me, if I were you.”

Still no answer.

“But I’ll be here.” His voice cracked. “Even if it kills me.”

A pause.

Then, barely audible—like the ghost of a voice long buried—she had whispered, “It is.”

His chest caved in. She didn’t look at him, but he heard her.

It is killing you.

And she was right.

He pressed his hands to his mouth, hiding the tremble in his jaw. He couldn’t cry. Not here. Not in front of her. But something inside him felt like it was dying every day he saw her like this.

And he would let it.

If it meant she could breathe again.

My throat tightened as I forced the words out.

“There’s a dinner today... business stuff, you know, but I—” I hesitated, watching the way her body tensed before I even finished. “I need you to come down tonight.”

She didn’t flinch this time. She just stared out the window, face calm in that numb, vacant way that wasn’t really calm at all. Like she was somewhere else—somewhere far from this room, far from me.

“I know,” I said quietly, rising from the chair but keeping my distance. “I know I don’t have the right to ask this. Not after everything. Not after what I—”

I couldn’t say it. The words lodged in my throat like barbed wire.

“Everyone will be waiting. To see the Kuznetsovs and their wives,” I continued, slower now. “And you... you are my wife.”

The moment the word wife left my mouth, something shifted.

She blinked.

Just once.

But I saw it. A ripple in the still water. A tiny crack in the ice.

Not anger. Not fear.

Pain.

A pain so deep and so buried that it looked like silence on the outside. But I knew it. Because I felt it too. Every time I looked at her and remembered how she ended up in my world. Every time I saw the ring on her finger and thought about the chain of cruelty that led us here.

We were husband and wife.

“I’ll be there the whole time,” I said gently. “Right beside you. No one will touch you. No one will speak to you unless you want them to. I’ll make sure of it.”

Her fingers curled tighter around the fabric of her sleeve. A tremble passed through her shoulders, so faint I almost missed it.

“But if you... if you can’t,” I added quickly, “if it’s too much, just say the word. I’ll cancel the dinner. I’ll tell them you’re sick. I’ll tell them I’m sick. I don’t care. I’ll make something up, and no one will question it.”

I took a single step closer.

Her eyes finally met mine.

God.

They were still beautiful.

Still broken.

Still hers.

“I’m not asking you to be strong,” I said, voice raw now. “I’m just asking you to stand beside me. For an hour. I’ll do the rest.”

She looked at me for a long time. Really looked at me. Like she was trying to see if there was a lie somewhere in my eyes. There wasn’t. There hadn’t been for months. The lies had all died with the man I used to be.

Then, softly—barely louder than a breath—she rasped, “You’ll stay close?”

The sound of her voice, even damaged, even paper-thin, sent a bolt of grief straight through my spine.

I nodded instantly. “Closer than anyone. I’ll hold your hand if you want. I won’t let go unless you ask me to.”

A silence settled between us. Heavier than before. But this time, it didn’t feel empty.

She uncurled her fingers slowly. Let her knees fall from her chest to the edge of the bed. Her back straightened, not with confidence, but resolve.

And then, almost imperceptibly, she nodded.

I didn’t move. I didn’t smile. I didn’t rush toward her or try to kiss her or pull her in.

I just whispered, “Thank you,” and left the room with my heart aching in my chest.

Because she had said yes.

Not to the dinner.

Not to the title.

But to standing beside me—even if it killed her.

And God help me... I didn’t know if I deserved it.