MAFIA PART 2 |Avian Kuznetsov Male Pov

Therapists. Physiotherapists. Nutritionists. Doctors. An entire elite medical team had been assigned to him 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 he became Avian’s husband 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 him too.

His father had ordered it. Whether it was guilt or a newfound tenderness toward the man he now called his son-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 he might come back to himself—none of it had touched the darkness in his mind. His body, yes. That was healing, slowly but steadily. He followed the nutritionist’s plan. His appetite, while faint, had returned. The doctors had managed to repair his wrist, resetting the bone that had been shattered out of punishment. He could grip things again—though he avoided knives.

But his voice...

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

Three months.

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

Loud voices. Cold floors. Sudden movements. Touch.

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

He never sought comfort—never turned to Avian. He cried into his pillow like it was a sin to be seen grieving. He curled in on himself when startled, like he 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 him. He, who had left him in that hell. He, who now stood at his side like a ghost chained to the damage he caused.

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

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

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

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

He hated that he 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.

He didn’t respond, didn’t even look at Avian.

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

They were trying to save him. And failing.

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

But his voice—

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

What he did.

He shifted when Avian stepped closer. His spine straightened like an animal sensing danger. Like he wasn’t sure what part of Avian he’d meet today.

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

His gaze slid to the window, not to Avian. But he didn’t say no.

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

He rubbed his 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 him suffer.

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

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

He gave the smallest nod. His eyes didn’t meet Avian’s. They rarely did.

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

Sometimes, he whispered Avian’s name, like it was poison. Other times, like it was the only thing left in his mouth.

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

He had been destroyed in Avian’s hands—and now Avian 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.”

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

Avian 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—he whispered, “It is.”

Avian’s chest caved in. He didn’t look at him, but he heard him.

It is killing you.

And he was right.

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

And he would let it.

If it meant he 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 his body tensed before I even finished. “I need you to come down tonight.”

He didn’t flinch this time. He just stared out the window, face calm in that numb, vacant way that wasn’t really calm at all. Like he 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 spouses,” I continued, slower now. “And you... you are my husband.”

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

He 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 him and remembered how he ended up in my world. Every time I saw the ring on his finger and thought about the chain of cruelty that led us here.

We were husband and husband.

“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.”

His fingers curled tighter around the fabric of his sleeve. A tremble passed through his 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.

His eyes finally met mine.

God.

They were still beautiful.

Still broken.

Still his.

“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.”

He looked at me for a long time. Really looked at me. Like he 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—he rasped, “You’ll stay close?”

The sound of his 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.

He uncurled his fingers slowly. Let his knees fall from his chest to the edge of the bed. His back straightened, not with confidence, but resolve.

And then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded.

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

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

Because he had said yes.

Not to the dinner.

Not to the title.

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

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