The Mafia King's Broken Bride

Chapter 15

PAVEL’S POV

I stand in front of the bathroom mirror. Gray jeans and a black T-shirt lie folded on the counter next to the sink. They disgust me. I can’t remember the last time I wore jeans—probably more than a decade ago.

It’s not the garments themselves, but the memories they carry. Digging through heaps of discarded clothes, mostly jeans, searching for something that fit. Everything was torn, dirty. I didn’t have money for laundry before putting them on. People avoided me on the subway, their disdain almost tangible, making my shame nearly unbearable.

The moment I started earning serious money through underground fights, I traded my entire second-hand wardrobe for slacks and dress shirts. Eventually, suits became standard. As time passed, I upgraded everything—expensive watches, accessories, tailored threads. It was all a way to forget what I had been for the first twenty years of my life. Trash. Someone the world would turn away from, someone invisible.

Funny thing is, even after nearly fifteen years, I can still smell it—the stench, whether from the clothes or the half-rotted food I scavenged from dumpsters behind restaurants. It clings to memory.

I study my face in the mirror: small scars across my temples, the bridge of my nose, my chin. Faded now, but each mark tells its story. How many times has my nose been broken? Seven? More, probably.

I was barely eighteen when I started fighting for money. At first, it was survival. Later, it became something else entirely. The crowd that came to watch, chanting my name, fuelled a deep, aching need inside me—to belong. Somewhere. Anywhere. Their excitement made me feel less alone.

I don’t know why I said yes when Yuri approached me after a fight and offered a position in the Bratva. Maybe I wanted to reconnect with my heritage. Russian kids were non-existent in foster care. By the time I aged out, I’d almost forgotten my mother tongue. The Bratva helped me regain it, though it no longer feels like my first language, nor does English.

I trace the prominent scar on the left side of my jaw. No matter how hard I try to hide the past, some reminders, visible or invisible, never disappear.

Is that why I let Asya stay? Maybe I recognized a kindred spirit trying to outrun her past, someone I could help because I know how it feels to have no one. But that’s only part of the reason. The truth is far more selfish. I’ve been alone all my life, and I’ve adapted. It’s the way I function. Yet when Asya stumbled into my life, I realized how lonely I truly was, and how much I crave her presence. I relish it. I even agreed to keep her survival a secret from her family.

I pick up the jeans, one of five pairs I ordered online yesterday after realizing the effect suits had on her. I can’t keep walking around in pyjamas all day. I definitely can’t wear them to the store.

I take a deep breath and slide them on.

ASYA’S POV

At least fifteen bags line the counter in a perfect row. Pasha bought way too much.

When he returned from the store an hour ago, he had to make two trips to the car to bring everything inside. After placing the last bag at the end of the line, he asked me to put away the groceries and make lunch. Then, laptop in hand, he disappeared into his bedroom, muttering something about work.

I start unpacking the first bag, leaving the ingredients I need for lasagna on the kitchen island and storing the rest. I should’ve been more specific with my list. I assumed he’d grab whatever pasta or tomato sauce caught his eye, but instead… every brand in the store seems to have made its way into my kitchen. Four kinds of lasagna noodles, three tomato sauces, six other types of pasta, and at least ten varieties of cheese are spilling from the first few bags alone.

Next, I move to the cereal from the following three bags. Twelve kinds: oats, soya, wheat, some with raisins or dried fruit, one with honey, a few with chocolate, and a couple more with almonds. I glance toward the bedroom door. I had hoped he’d stay in the kitchen or living room, but he hasn’t returned. Still, even when he’s not in the same room, knowing he’s here pushes the dreadful voice in my head back a little.

The last few bags are different, big boutique bags with wide ribbon handles. Pasha said he’d buy me some clothes. I expected sweatpants, maybe a couple of T-shirts. But these bags are stacked full of outfits, fabrics I’ve never worn before, textures that feel alien and exciting in my hands.

Should I unpack them? He only mentioned groceries when he asked me to put things away. I shrug and turn back to the kitchen island to focus on the lasagna.

Cooking while wearing only someone else’s T-shirt, without anything under it, feels… strange. Vulnerable, yet oddly liberating. In this kitchen that isn’t mine, surrounded by another man’s things, I concentrate on the task in front of me. A faint melody plays at the back of my mind, and for a moment, I let myself breathe.

PAVEL’S POV

“No, you can’t bring the buyers to Ural, Sergei,” I say into the phone and exhale.

“Why the hell not? Did you look outside? It’s f*****g freezing. My balls are going to fall off if I take them to the unheated warehouse and listen to their rambling for more than ten minutes.”

“The last time you conducted a meeting in my club, the cleaning crew spent two hours trying to wash away the blood and brain matter from the VIP booth.”

“That was years ago, Pasha!” he barks. “And you changed the upholstery to dark leather last month. Washing the blood off that is a piece of cake.”

“I said no.”

“Mudak,” he mutters before hanging up.

I shake my head and return to the liquor order on my laptop. Since I won’t be heading to the club, I have to take care of the pressing matters and brief Kostya on the rest. He might be good with numbers, but logistics? Not so much. Glancing at the corner of the screen, it’s just after noon. I should check on Asya.

I’ve been holed up at the desk for the past three hours, but every fifteen minutes, I peeked at her to make sure she’s okay. This morning, she seemed absorbed in cooking lunch, humming to herself. Now, though, she’s nowhere in sight.

“Asya?” I call, hurrying across the living room. No answer.

I pass the dining table, where plates and salad bowls are set for two. A big tray of lasagna, cut into squares, sits between them. I round the kitchen island and stop short. Asya is on the floor, back pressed to the cupboard, arms wrapped tightly around her legs. Her eyes are wide, staring at the window.

“Asya?” I crouch next to her, placing a hand on the back of her neck. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s… snowing,” she whispers, eyes locked on the glass.

“You don’t like snow?” I ask.

“Not anymore,” she murmurs.

“Asya, give me your eyes, baby.” I brush my thumb down her cheek. “Please.”

She takes a deep breath and turns her head. The haunted look in her eyes hits me like a punch to the chest.

“I’m going to pull down the blinds,” I say. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

I move quickly, closing the kitchen blinds, then rush to the living room to draw the heavy curtains. When I return, Asya hasn’t moved, but now she’s staring at the floor.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles, looking up at me with watery eyes.

I crouch, cupping her face. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“I’m such a spineless person,” she whispers, pressing her lips tightly together.

I lean in closer, my face inches from hers. “You’re reacting to reminders. Your mind is being triggered, but that doesn’t make you weak. Do you understand?”

She sighs and closes her eyes. Something inside me breaks seeing her so defeated. I grit my teeth, forcing myself to stay calm. Soon, though, I’ll make those sons of bitches pay.

“Mishka. Look at me.”

Her eyes open.

“You are not weak,” I say. “And you will fight and get better. I promise.”

She watches me, then leans forward, her mouth close to my ear, sliding out of my hold.

“I killed a man,” she whispers. “That night, I escaped. I killed my client.”

I bite down to hold back my rage. “Good,” I manage through gritted teeth.

“I don’t regret it. I should. But I don’t.” She wraps her arm around my neck, pressing her cheek to mine. “Does that make me a bad person?”

“No. You defended yourself from a s****l predator who violated you in the worst way possible. In fact, you did him a favour.”

“A favour?”

“Yes. If you hadn’t killed him, I would have. And believe me, whatever you did wouldn’t even come close to what I would have done to him.” I squeeze the back of her neck lightly. “Now come on, show me what you prepared. It’s the first time someone has cooked for me.”

Asya leans back, her face inches from mine again, and presses her hand to my cheek. “Thank you. For everything.”