The Mafia Boss Knew He Could Never Have Children—Until His Bride Started Getting Sick Every Morning

Bastion did not react with immediate rage. He did not smash the glass on his desk or shout for his lieutenants. Instead, he reached out, opened the blue folder, and studied the mass spectrometry charts as if they were financial balance sheets written in a language he was determined to master.

"Explain the peaks," he said after a long silence.

Genevieve stepped closer, pointing a slender finger at the dark line graph. "This spike here is medroxyprogesterone. It's a synthetic hormone used in high doses to treat advanced carcinomas or to chemically suppress reproductive functions. When combined with synthetic testosterone, it tricks your brain into thinking your body has far too much hormone, causing your pituitary gland to shut down command signals to your reproductive system."

"And Conrad knew this?"

"Conrad compounded this himself," Genevieve said. "The lot numbers were covered because these aren't pharmaceutical-grade commercial vials. They were prepared in a private compounding facility without regulatory oversight. He wasn't maintaining your health, Bastion. He was maintaining your dependency."

Bastion leaned back in his heavy leather chair, his eyes fixed on the ceiling molding. The shadows beneath his cheekbones looked deeper in the lamp light.

"If I have no children, the Ventresca leadership passes to Orazio’s secondary line upon my death," Bastion said, his voice flat, analytical, almost devoid of emotion. "Which means Valyria’s eldest son inherits the northern docks, the real estate holdings, and the international transport contracts."

"Orazio orchestrated it?"

"Orazio approved Conrad's appointment after I was shot eight years ago," Bastion replied. "I was in a coma for two weeks in a private facility in Lucerne. When I woke up, Conrad told me the abdominal trauma had destroyed the vascular supply to the pelvic floor. He said the injections were necessary to keep me functional."

He looked up at Genevieve, his gray eyes cold as iron. "How long to clear this from my system?"

"The compound has a long half-life," Genevieve explained. "It will take four to six weeks for the synthetic progestins to clear your fatty tissue. After that, we can begin a recovery protocol using legitimate, pharmaceutical-grade hCG and receptor modulators to stimulate your natural production. But you will experience severe withdrawal symptoms during the clearance phase—fatigue, joint pain, intense mood swings, and fever."

"Can I work through it?"

"You will have to," Genevieve said. "Because if Valyria or Orazio sees you falter now, they will know we uncovered the protocol."

Bastion stood up slowly, stepping around the desk until he was standing directly in front of her. The physical presence of him was overwhelming—the broad shoulders, the faint scent of cedarwood and rain, the quiet intensity of a man who had survived bullets and betrayed trust.

"Why tell me?" Bastion asked quietly. "You could have stayed quiet. You could have lived in this house, collected your father’s cleared debts, and walked away in three years under the exit clause you wrote."

"Because I am a pharmacist," Genevieve said, looking up into his eyes without flinching. "I fix bad medicine. And because I do not allow people to be poisoned in my presence."