American Medicine God: Starting by Inheriting a Pharmaceutical Company and Selling Medicine

The scene fell silent instantly.

The air seemed to freeze. Everyone held their breath, their eyes darting back and forth between the female reporter who had asked the question and Victor on the stage.

This is a fatal problem. It's like a scalpel, tearing open the fancy wrapping paper to reveal the potential rot inside.

The director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, a normally impeccably mannered old gentleman, was now pale. He nervously watched Victor, clutching a handkerchief in his hand. He was terrified that this hot-tempered young patron would erupt in anger, turning this meticulously prepared public relations event into a disaster.

Victor maintained his smile, but his eyes turned slightly cold, like the Sicilian sea in winter.

Just as he was about to retort, a hand gently pressed on the back of his hand.

It's Sofia.

She gave Victor a reassuring look, then gracefully walked to the microphone. She adjusted the microphone's height with effortless ease.

She looked at the female reporter with no anger in her eyes, only a kind of maternal compassion, like a nun looking at a lost lamb.

"Madam, I understand your skepticism." Sofia's voice was gentle yet firm. "In this age of skepticism, people are used to looking for conspiracy behind every act of kindness, and used to interpreting every act of generosity as atonement."

She paused, her gaze sweeping across the room. The reporters, who had been expecting a good show, were stunned by her frank and open demeanor and put down their pens.

"My husband, Victor, is not a perfect businessman. But he is an idealist."

Sofia turned her head and looked at Victor with deep affection and sincere eyes.

"I've seen him cry late at night after reading a patient's thank-you letter. I've also seen him stay up all night in the lab working on a new molecular formula, just to reduce the side effects of a drug by a little bit. Everything he does is to make this world a little less painful."

She looked at the female reporter again, her eyes glistening with tears.

"Yes, we have been attacked commercially. But that's precisely why we're standing here."

Sofia's voice rose an octave.

"We established this foundation not to atone for our sins, because we are innocent. We established it to prove that no matter how much the outside world misunderstands us, no matter how much malicious speculation we encounter, the Corleone family will never stop pursuing 'beauty' and 'goodness'."

"If this is what you call 'indulgences,' then please allow me to buy a few more."

After Sofia finished speaking, she bowed deeply.

First came a deathly silence.

Then, the first round of applause rang out from the corner. It was the old curator, his face flushed with excitement.

Immediately, applause spread like a tide, growing louder and louder until it turned into thunderous cheers. Some of the more sentimental ladies even began to secretly wipe away tears, moved by this "sincere" confession.

The female reporter opened her mouth, seemingly wanting to say something, but amidst the frenzied atmosphere around her, she could only slump down and sit down. She knew she had lost this round.

She didn't lose to logic, but to emotions. She lost to the "goodness" disguised by money, and to the world's desire for the "perfect victim."

......

After the press conference.

Victor and Sophia stood before the enormous Rubens painting, receiving congratulations from celebrities. The champagne tower shimmered under the lights, and waiters in tuxedos moved about inside.

"Mr. Corleone, your wife was absolutely brilliant." The director of the Metropolitan Museum of Art shook Victor's hand tightly, almost incoherent with excitement. "Her lecture will be a classic moment in the history of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. From today onwards, 'Corleone Room' will become a new landmark in New York."

"It is my honor, Director," Victor said modestly, with an impeccable smile on his face. "It is our responsibility as husband and wife to contribute to art."

When the crowd finally dispersed, leaving only the two of them.

Victor looked at Sophia. She was gently wiping away a tear from the corner of her eye with a tissue—the tear was perfectly controlled, neither ruining her makeup nor detracting from her beauty.

"What I just said," Victor said in a low voice, "almost made me believe it myself. Especially the part about 'crying in the middle of the night,' I don't remember being that sentimental."

Sofia gently took his arm, a smile blooming on her face.

"That's the art of public relations, my dear. As long as you're sincere enough, it's the truth."

She pointed to the reporters who were still taking pictures of the bronze medal in the distance.

"People only believe what they want to believe. They want to believe you're a saint because it makes them feel comfortable accepting your money and enjoying the free champagne and art. If they admit you're a bad person, what do they, the people enjoying your donations, become? Accomplices? Nobody wants to admit they're an accomplice."

"That's called 'complicity'," Sofia said softly. "We give them a moral excuse, and they'll climb down that path with gratitude."

She looked up at the painting, "Peace and War".

In the painting, Minerva, the goddess of wisdom, uses her body to shield Mars, the god of war, from Pakus, the goddess of peace, behind her. Rubens' brushstrokes are both grand and delicate, full of Baroque dramatic tension.

"It seems that in their eyes, we are already the goddess of wisdom who protects peace," Sophia said sarcastically.

"No." Victor shook his head.

His gaze traveled through the museum’s massive glass dome to the distant, glittering Manhattan skyline.

"We are Mars, the god of war," Victor's voice was cold and clear. "We've just learned to wear the robes of the goddess of wisdom."

"Only a fool would truly believe that peace comes through prayer. Peace is won through war. And in modern society, the form of war has changed. It's no longer about swords and cannons, but about capital, law, media, and... art."

Victor turned around and looked at the magnificent space named "Corleone Hall." Here would hang the world's greatest works of art, and on their backs, his name would be forever engraved.

But that's not enough.

"What?" Sophia asked, somewhat surprised by his ambition.

"One exhibition hall isn't enough. We need to enter more than just a museum." Victor reached out, as if trying to grasp something in the void.

"And Harvard's medical school, Yale's law school, and... that white house in Washington."

His eyes burned with fervor, and his ambition was no longer concealed.

"We want the name 'Corleone' to be etched not only on the walls, but also on the backbone of this nation. We want every top university, every major hospital, and every public library to be indispensable to our donations."

"We want to use these donations to control their boards of directors, influence their academic direction, and even... determine their values."

"We must become the cornerstone of this country. When the cornerstone is deep enough, the buildings on top cannot be demolished even if someone wants to."

Sofia looked at him. She saw a true godfather being born.

Unlike the older generation of Mafia members who only knew how to use guns and intimidation, Victor knew how to rule with more sophisticated methods. He wasn't ruling just a few blocks; he was ruling the very soul of the country.

The love and adoration in his eyes were almost overflowing.

"That would be very expensive," she said softly. "It's an astronomical figure. It could cost tens of billions."

"It's okay!"

Victor reached out and stroked the bronze medal. His fingertips traced the line of golden letters.

"The cost will ultimately come from the consumer. Someone will pay for it."

He lowered his head and looked at the line of text:

"Victor and Sofia Corleone."