Undressed By The Mafia God novel Chapter 468

Chapter 468: Lay It On Me

Great.

Fucking freaking fantastic.

Luca shifted in the chair and glared at the doctor. He had better hope the bumbling fool in the white coat could fix it.

Otherwise, Luca was going to have to point a fucking gun at the doctor’s head and threaten his entire family, friends, and whatever golf club he clearly belonged to until someone produced a solution.

Was that unreasonable? Maybe. Was Luca in the mood to be reasonable? Absolutely not. The doctor finally hung up the phone.

Luca straightened. The doctor turned to him.

"Mr Genovese..."

God, that was not starting well. He leaned back in the chair, jaw tight.

"Lay it on me," Luca said.

"I’m afraid a lot of things are catching up with you, which has led to the current situation."

Luca stared at him. "What do you mean?"

The doctor sat forward, folding his hands over the file on the desk. "Well," the doctor began carefully, "I would not pretend and say I do not know what you do."

Luca’s eyes narrowed.

The doctor cleared his throat. "Everyone has heard of Luciano Genovese. You have a high-pressure life. Constant stress. Lack of proper rest. Repeated adrenaline spikes. Hypervigilance. That is one factor, and frankly, I think it is the strongest."

He could argue, but what was the point? His average week was everything the doctor had listed.

"Plus," the doctor continued, glancing at the file, "over the years, you have been treated for gunshot wounds, stab wounds, deep cuts, blunt trauma, fractures..." He paused, turning a page. "You have foreign objects and scar tissue in places they should not be, Mr Genovese." The doctor gave him a flat look. "You have metal buried in your body."

"I have back ups to my back ups."

"Yes. I gathered."

Luca leaned forward. "Get to the point."

The doctor sighed. "All these factors are beginning to affect your body," he said. "Stress, trauma, sleep deprivation, circulation issues, and psychological pressure can all present physically. In your case, it seems to have started with your erectile dysfunction."

Luca went completely still.

Dysfunction.

It was an ugly word. A weak word. A word that belonged to broken machines, not him. Not Luciano Genovese.

"Dys..." Luca’s mouth twisted around the word like it tasted bad. "Dysfunction? What do you mean dysfunction?" Luca demanded, his voice rising despite himself. "Are you saying you cannot fix this?"

The doctor inhaled slowly. Luca’s fingers tightened on the armrest. This was not happening. Not to him.

Not now.

He leaned forward, eyes dark.

"We do not recommend enhancement drugs because you were recently shot in your lungs," the doctor continued.

"What the fuck are you saying?" Luca asked.

The doctor’s throat bobbed. He had not prepared for explaining erectile dysfunction to Luciano Genovese, a man whose name was whispered in certain circles like a curse and whose eyes currently suggested that modern medicine was about to get fucked up. "I’m saying...that your case appears to be both psychological and physical."

Luca’s jaw flexed.

"Your body has been under extreme strain. The medications over the years, the previous injuries, the scar tissue, the stress levels, the constant adrenaline responses—"

"English," Luca snapped.

The doctor flinched. "Your body is tired."

Blue fucking pills.

Luciano Genovese.

Impossible.

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