Firebird

As Lisa was yanked backward, her head slammed into something hard. Her world went black.

When she woke, the air was cold — thick with the scent of sweat and smoke. The room was dim, lit only by a single flickering bulb overhead. Shadows stretched across the concrete walls. She blinked slowly, disoriented.

Several tall, broad-shouldered men stood before her, tattooed and built like killers. Their eyes gleamed with something… unkind.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Who are they? she thought, heart hammering. What did I do?

Then a familiar voice broke the silence — smooth, venomous, female.

“Oh, look. Sleeping beauty’s awake.”

Lisa’s head turned shakily toward the voice.

It was the blonde wife. Anya Kuznetsov. Sergei’s fifth wife — beautiful, cruel, and unhinged.

Anya stepped into the light with a glass of red wine in one hand, her wrist wrapped tightly in bandages.

“Here's the Korean whore,” she sneered. “You were with that bitch Avery the other day, weren’t you? She broke my wrist,” she hissed, flexing the arm slightly. “It still hurts like hell.”

Lisa’s lips parted, but no words came out.

“Oh don’t give me that innocent face,” Anya spat, storming toward her and yanking her hair back hard. “You girls think you’re so special. So bold.”

Lisa winced in pain, a gasp slipping out — then, instinct kicked in. She sank her teeth into Anya’s arm.

Anya screamed, yanking her hand back as blood dripped from the bite.

“You little rat!” she roared.

She raised her palm and slapped Lisa hard across the face, sending her sprawling to the floor. Lisa whimpered, blood at the corner of her lip, hair tangled and clothes rumpled.

Anya stared at her for a moment, chest rising and falling in fury — then slowly, a smirk curled on her lips. A dangerous, twisted idea flickered in her eyes.

She turned toward the looming men behind her — five of them, standing like statues.

“She’s yours for tonight,” she said coolly, sipping her wine. “Don’t go gentle.”

Lisa’s heart stopped.

She pushed herself backward. “No—wait—please—” she stammered.

But the men stepped forward, smiling with the kind of lust that made her skin crawl.

One grabbed her by the arm, ripping her pink pajama top at the shoulder. Another began unbuckling his belt.

Lisa screamed. She kicked, clawed, cried. Her small fists were no match against their brute strength. Her vision blurred with tears as hands reached for her—

Then—

CRACK.

A shot rang out.

Everyone froze.

A second bullet hit the ceiling light, shattering it, plunging the room into near darkness.

A low chuckle echoed from the shadows.

The sound of slow footsteps.

Then came the voice—playful, smooth, with just enough danger to make your blood run cold.

“Now, now… that’s no way to treat a lady.”

From the darkness, Ivan Kuznetsov emerged, sucking lazily on a pink lollipop, a pistol in his other hand.

His eyes gleamed with deadly amusement.

“I leave you idiots alone for one night… and this is the circus you start?”

The men turned, startled—but not fast enough.

Ivan didn’t pause.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

Four of the men dropped instantly, bullet holes clean and precise. No mercy. No mess.

The fifth man tried to run—Bang.

Dead.

Ivan stood in the center of the chaos, unbothered. His gun still smoked, and he twirled the lollipop with a grin.

Anya’s scream pierced the silence.

“You maniac! You shot them—!”

Ivan raised a brow.

“Oh… were those your dogs?” he asked innocently.

Then he aimed.

Bang.

Anya shrieked as the bullet grazed her thigh, sending her crashing to the ground.

“That’s for being annoying,” Ivan muttered.

He tossed his gun aside casually and turned toward Lisa.

She was curled on the floor, breath heaving, hair wild, pajamas torn, blood smeared across her lips. Her eyes were wide with fear.

Ivan crouched in front of her slowly, studying her face with something close to amusement.

“So cute,” he murmured, reaching to brush a strand of hair from her face.

Lisa flinched back violently.

He chuckled.

“Don’t worry, angel. I’m not like them.” Then he leaned closer, voice darker. “But stand up, or I’ll call ten more to finish what they started.”

Lisa’s whole body tensed. She slowly got to her feet, eyes downcast, trembling.

She didn’t dare meet his gaze — the rumors about Ivan were legendary. Ruthless. Unpredictable.

Cruel.

She expected anything… except what came next.

Ivan shrugged off his black coat and draped it gently over her shoulders. Then, without a word, he took her by the hand — gently, but firmly.

“Come,” he said.

She followed.

Like a silent, shaken puppy.

He took her to his room—one of the chambers, reserved for the sons.

Lisa barely noticed the lavish hallways. Her feet moved on autopilot, mind still swirling from what almost happened.

When the door opened, she froze. The room was massive. Sleek. Luxurious. But dark in mood. A king-sized bed draped in black silk. Weapons casually placed on a low shelf. Mood lights glowing dim red. A sleek minibar, unopened whiskey bottles... and a pair of fuzzy handcuffs that made her stomach knot.

Playboy cave. Of course.

Ivan didn’t say a word. He dropped his coat onto the bed and vanished into an adjoining room.

Lisa stood in place, her heart pounding. What does he want? Why did he bring me here? He can’t possibly...

Her eyes drifted to the door. She took a silent step—then another— But before her hand could touch the doorknob, a smooth voice said:

“Are you thinking of running, little bunny?”

She jumped.

Ivan stood there, now shirtless, holding a first aid box in one hand and a towel in the other. His silver chain gleamed against his toned chest.

He walked over and gently pushed her to sit on the black leather couch. His expression unreadable.

“Sit still.” He popped open the kit and pulled out antiseptic and cotton. “Stop looking like I’m about to eat you.”

She flinched as he brushed her messy hair away from her face. His fingers were surprisingly gentle.

“You think I brought you here to... fuck you?” he said bluntly.

Lisa gasped, face flaming red. “C-Can you be less... raw?”

Ivan smirked, eyes gleaming. “Too late.”

He leaned in, voice dropping.

“I’m not going to. Not now.” A beat. “...Not yet.”

Lisa’s eyes shot up to his.

Not yet?

She didn’t even realize she’d been staring until he caught her gaze and added, “We could start now if you want.”

The smirk on his face was so sinful it made her cheeks burn hotter.

“W-What?” she stammered, shrinking into the couch.

Ivan tilted his head, amused by her reaction, then dabbed her lip with ointment and whispered, “Cute.”

*

Up on the rooftop, the air was cool and quiet. The kind of night that made you forget the bloodshed from hours ago.

Avery’s back was pressed against the steel rail, her heart thudding in her ears.

Kieran stood inches away, his tall figure shadowed in the moonlight, black hoodie pulled over his head.

His scent—a sharp mix of sandalwood and smoke—wrapped around her. Her own floral vanilla perfume mingled with his, caught by the breeze.

She could feel the heat of his breath on her cheek, steady and slow.

Her heartbeat was being stupid again. So loud. So annoying.

“You look ugly with injuries,” he said bluntly, pulling a small bottle from his pocket. “Treat your face. You look hideous.”

He tossed it to her.

Avery caught it without thinking. Her eyes dropped to the label. Antibacterial ointment.

She blinked. “That’s the nicest insult I’ve ever gotten.”

But he was already turning away, walking toward the edge again like he didn’t just leave her flustered.

“What was that?” she muttered, scoffing under her breath. “That dickface…”

Her hand tightened around the little bottle.

And still… her stupid heart kept beating faster.

She entered her room and sat before the mirror. Staring at the girl in the reflection.

Blood crusted along her temple. A bruise on her cheekbone. The bottle in her hand felt heavy.

Why the hell did he even care? Why did he say that?

She opened the ointment.

And for the first time since the massacre—she treated her wounds, silently.

Not because of the pain.

But because he told her to.

*

In Bulgaria, deep within a fortress wreathed in fog and silence, Sergei Kuznetsov sat in a leather chair, surrounded by shadows and secrets.

Spread across the long glass table in front of him were dozens of photographs.

Photos of Avery.

Unaware. Unguarded. Before the marriage. At cafes. On the street. With her short hair wind-blown. That fiery gaze. That tomboy charm. That mouth.

Sergei leaned back slowly, his weathered fingers brushing over one of the glossy prints. His eyes gleamed with sick fascination.

“I can feel her fire even through these photos,” he muttered. “She’s the wild kind… The hot kind. The kind I like.”

He exhaled smoke, lips curling in a twisted grin.

Across the room, his longtime personal assistant Paine—a middle-aged brute with face tattoos and silver chains hanging from his black shirt—stood silently.

“You always pick well, Lord Sergei,” he said in Russian-accented English, a crooked smile on his scarred face.

Sergei chuckled darkly. “Right choices?” He let out a harsh laugh, taking a heavy drag of his cigar and blowing out smoke through his nostrils, like a dragon on edge.

He picked up a chrome MP-443 Grach, loaded it slowly, then pointed it carelessly at nothing in particular.

“I haven’t made a right choice since the birth of that cursed bastard, Kieran.” His voice turned rough with hate. “Ever since then, it’s like fate keeps spitting in my face. Silence still exists. Ten years… and I can’t crush a ghost.”

Paine’s voice dropped to a snake-like whisper. “Then kill him. His mother already pays for his existence. End the bloodline.”

Sergei’s gaze sharpened.

“A Russian proverb,” he murmured. “‘You don’t kill the wolf that guards your enemy’s door… until you know what it guards.’” He poured himself a glass of Stolichnaya Elit, the vodka like liquid fire. “I can’t kill Kieran. Not yet.”

Paine nodded silently.

“She’ll be my favorite now. My little firebird,” Sergei went on, stroking the photo again. “Make sure the entire estate knows it. She is to be treated like royalty. Anyone who dares treat her less…” he smiled, eyes flashing. “They’ll drink their own teeth.”

“Yes, Lord Sergei,” Paine replied immediately.

Sergei raised his glass in toast. “Inform everyone. She is premium. And she is mine.”

He downed the vodka, puffing smoke until it bled from his nose, eyes wild and gleaming like the beast he was.

—

Meanwhile, back at the Kuznetsov estate…

In a private recovery suite, Roman lay in bed, bandaged like a shattered doll. His wounds pulsed. His ego ached worse.

The news had reached him already.

Avery—Sergei’s chosen queen.

His.

Just for him.

Roman chuckled bitterly, wincing as his stitches stretched. “Mine,” he whispered, lips curling. “Old bastard really thinks he’ll get her first?”

He remembered the way she looked during the attack. Ripped gown. Panic in her eyes. She had almost been his—theirs—before the damn snipers showed up.

He gritted his teeth, blood seeping into his bandages again.

The door creaked open.

In walked Anton Kuznetsov, the cleanest of them all. Dressed in a sleek charcoal Armani suit, his dark hair combed back to perfection. Corporate king, cold-blooded strategist.

“Hello, brother,” he said, voice smooth like poisoned honey. “Such a pity. Look at the great Roman Kuznetsov. A walking corpse.”

He took a seat casually, crossing his legs.

Roman growled. “You came to gloat.”

Anton gave a soft smile. “Wouldn’t you? We both know in the mafia—or in business—family’s a myth. Everyone’s just trying to outlive the other.”

“You arrogant asshole,” Roman hissed.

His eyes darted toward his gun on the table just out of reach.

But before he could grab it, the door slammed open.

In strolled Ivan.

Lollipop in mouth. Dagger smile. Chaos in human form.

“Well, well! Looks like I missed a tea party,” Ivan said, his voice sing-songy and annoying on purpose. “Three Kuznetsov brothers in one room? Feels like a family therapy session gone wrong.”

Anton smirked. Roman snarled.

Ivan’s eyes sparkled with mock innocence as he tapped Roman’s IV bag. “Still bleeding? I swear, you’re softer than one of my ex-girlfriends after tequila.”

Roman lunged for the gun.

Bang.

He missed.

Ivan dodged like he was dancing, the lollipop still in his mouth.

“Tsk. No respect for guests,” Ivan muttered, walking toward the door again. “Don’t bleed out before I bring popcorn next time.”

With one final wink, he exited.

Anton stood, fixing his cufflinks. “Heal well, Roman.”

Then he was gone.

Roman collapsed back on the bed, cursing, his mind spinning with hatred, humiliation… and a burning desire for vengeance against Silence.

*

Elsewhere in the infirmary…

Two women lay in stiff silence—both wounded, both stubborn, both glaring at the ceiling like it held answers.

“It’s contagious, you know…” Lilia scoffed, her voice sharp and mocking. “Sharing a room with you. I can feel the rot spreading.”

Klara Petrov, the head maid and longtime rival, turned her head slowly, her expression cool but cutting. “And yet I’m still breathing despite your perfume choking the air.”

Lilia snickered, her gaze sliding over the woman with contempt. “Why don’t we just end it already? This stupid grudge—it’s been going on for years.”

Klara raised a brow. “You first.”

Their eyes locked, both seething.

“You’re just jealous Sergei prefers me more,” Klara spat, voice dripping with venom. “You’ve always been jealous. You’re just a slutty, lowlife bitch from the slums—banging anything with legs. Men, women... even your own stepson.”

Lilia's face twitched—but her smile didn’t waver. “At least I was good enough to be noticed. You had to spread your legs and beg.”

That was it.

Lilia’s eyes flared in fury. “Bitch!” she growled, yanking the IV from her arm and launching herself from her bed with surprising speed.

Klara didn’t flinch—she was already on her feet.

Bandaged, bloodied, and bruised, the two women collided in a storm of slaps, punches, and hair-pulling. They cursed in Russian, insulted like war-hardened witches, dragging each other across the sterile floor like high-society hyenas.

The nurse on duty stepped into the chaos—and froze.

She blinked once. Then slowly backed out and shut the door behind her like she’d seen nothing at all.

Inside, the brawl raged on—two women in silk gowns and bullet wounds, fighting like hell itself was watching.

—

Back at the Wells family house…

Dinner was… quiet.

Too quiet.

Jen Wells sat stiffly, stabbing at her rice. Her mind raced with worry—money, loans, broken promises.

Mr. Wells barely touched his food, eyes dull, clearly thinking of Avery, his daughter married into a mafia hellhole.

Austin, their son, sat quietly, biting his tongue. He missed his sister—her laughter, her sarcasm, her chaos. It didn’t feel like home anymore.

And Lily Wells… was the only one smiling.

She cracked lame jokes no one laughed at, twirled her fork dramatically, and tried to act like nothing was wrong.

But the truth was… she was glad Avery was gone.

She had always wanted to be her.

But no matter what Lily wore, how she spoke, or how she flirted—she wasn’t Avery. She didn’t have that fight in her. That fire.

She was just… Lily.

Then came the bang of the door.

Colt walked in, breathing hard. His hands clenched. His eyes stormy.

He dropped his backpack.

“I’m going to the Kuznetsov estate,” he said suddenly.

Everyone stared.

Jen choked on her water. Mr. Wells’s spoon clattered. Austin looked up, confused. Lily blinked.

“What?” Jen asked, voice rising. “Why?!”