My Second Marriage with the Mafia Kingpin novel Chapter 266

Chapter 266: Can It Be Cured?

"Master, how have you been feeling lately?"

Lucian sat comfortably in an armchair, sleeve rolled up, and arm extended as a doctor drew blood from him. It was that time of the month — the routine check to see whether his condition had worsened.

Lucian answered without hesitation. "Good."

"Better than I’ve been in a while," he added, glancing at Doctor Wesley. "And I’ve been sleeping well."

In the past, Lucian would have stopped at that single word — Good — and said nothing more. Sometimes he wouldn’t have answered at all.

"I’ve also quit nicotine," Lucian continued, meeting the doctor’s eyes briefly. "I have moments where the urge comes back, but I don’t give in."

Doctor Wesley nearly smiled at the fact that Lucian had volunteered more than a one-word answer — more than he had given in any appointment since his diagnosis. He could still remember the day he had broken the news to Lucian. The man hadn’t even flinched.

If he recalled correctly, Lucian had only asked two things:

Can it be cured?

And — how long do I have?

Doctor Wesley had told him five years at most, and only if Lucian committed to treatment and managed his lifestyle carefully with therapy. Lucian had done neither. He had never once gone to treatment or taken the prescribed medication.

Worse, his lifestyle had only continued to deteriorate his health.

Which meant the doctor’s initial estimate had likely grown shorter.

"Quitting smoking is a good decision, Master," Doctor Wesley said. "But I still strongly advise you to consider surgery."

A brief silence settled between them as the doctor withdrew the needle from Lucian’s arm and secured it. He set it aside, straightened, and looked at Lucian directly.

"Your most recent labs show improvement, but your X-rays tell a different story," he said plainly. "Your lungs are getting worse."

Whatever progress Lucian had made in changing his habits, the years of neglect had already caused permanent damage — particularly to his lungs.

Doctor Wesley had held back for a long time. After Lucian’s last results, he had decided he could no longer afford to.

"Master, be honest with me," the doctor’s voice dropped into something firmer. "Have you been experiencing shortness of breath? Chest tightness? Coughing up blood?"

Lucian said nothing. He simply looked at the doctor.

"Master, I understand that things are going well right now, but I’ve already told you —"

"The surgery could kill me," Lucian said. "Couldn’t it?"

"The procedure would be performed by one of the foremost specialists in organ transplantation."

"His mortality rate is too low," Lucian replied evenly. "I’m not a medical professional, and I don’t doubt that he is among the best. But unless the survival rate is at least fifty percent, I won’t agree to it."

With that, he began folding his sleeve back down.

Doctor Wesley exhaled heavily.

This was always the problem with Lucian as a patient. He was immovable. Over the years, the doctor had dealt with all kinds of patients who refused treatment out of fear, out of denial, out of despair. With Lucian, he still couldn’t tell whether it was fear driving the refusal, or whether the man had simply made peace with his fate.

"There is no cure," Lucian said, finishing with his sleeve and turning to face the doctor. "You told me that yourself. The medication only slows the progression. The transplant isn’t a cure either."

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