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

Darkness remained behind the mahogany door, while sunlight poured unrestrainedly into the floor-to-ceiling windows on the top floor of the Water Tower.

Victor stood by the window, looking down at the stream of cars below, which looked like ants.

This is Sofia's office.

Unlike Victor's study, this place is all white. There's a white Italian leather sofa, white orchids, and even the painting hanging on the wall is a minimalist white abstract painting—a work by Robert Lyman, with only a few subtle textures on the all-white canvas, reportedly worth three million dollars.

Sofia Corleone was tasked with displaying glory in the sunlight, using her elegance to gild the rising, vast empire with a sacred golden edge.

"This is the 'cleaning' list for this quarter."

Sofia gently pushed a document in front of Victor. It was a list of the top cultural institutions in the United States: the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the Guggenheim Museum, the New York Public Library, Lincoln Center, Carnegie Hall... Each name represented an admission ticket to the American upper class, the backyard of the so-called "old money" class.

"Based on the advice of our public relations team, the same group you just poached from Goldman Sachs, we need to redefine the surname 'Corleone.' The media is currently portraying us as 'painkiller dealers,' which is very disrespectful."

Victor turned around and picked up the list. His gaze swept over the astronomical donation amounts and the "reward terms" noted at the end.

"Dignity is expensive, my dear."

Sofia picked up her coffee cup and took a sip. "But it's worth it. A hundred years ago, the Rockefeller family was vilified as 'vampires,' 'robber tycoons,' and 'worker-killers.' But now? When you walk into Rockefeller Center and see that giant Christmas tree, or admire Picasso's masterpieces at the Museum of Modern Art, who remembers old John D. Rockefeller, who drove oil workers to suicide?"

"People only care about what a building is called, not where the money to build it came from. That's called 'reputation swapping'."

Victor looked at her with admiration. She learned very quickly, especially when he knew that Sophia was learning purely because of him—not for money, not for fame, but purely because of the person she loved.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the office door.

"I'm sorry to interrupt your art appreciation," Katie said, closing the door, "but do you really think this is the right time to do this?"

She walked to the table, looked at the open catalogs, and frowned. "I just had afternoon tea with several senators' wives. The winds in Washington aren't right. Although the Justice Department's audit is over, it's only a temporary ceasefire. The media's nose is still ticking; those reporters are watching every large expenditure. At this critical juncture, won't this high-profile spending backfire?"

Katie took a deep breath and continued, "There's talk that we're trying to cover something up. If we donate a hundred million dollars to the museum now, it would be telling the world that we have a guilty conscience."

Victor looked at the two of them.

Sofia advocates using light to cover darkness; Katie, on the other hand, prefers to be wary of risks in the shadows. They represent two completely different philosophies of life.

"Katie, you're still thinking like a businessman."

"The logic of businessmen is 'to make a fortune discreetly,' to 'make a fortune quietly.' But we're not doing business; we're building an empire. And in an empire, nothing is discreet. Was Julius Caesar discreet? Was the Medici family discreet?"

He stood up and walked to the row of exquisite architectural models. It was the proposed new wing of the Metropolitan Museum of Art—the Corleone Gallery.

“You’re right, everyone’s staring at the dirty stuff.” Victor looked at the miniature Roman dome. “That’s why we’re making something shiny to distract them.”

"This is 'art whitewashing'."

"When people walk into a museum and see the magnificent exhibition hall with the name 'Corleone' engraved on it, see the Roman sculptures from two thousand years ago, and see those works of art that symbolize the highest achievements of human civilization, their psychological defenses will collapse."

"Because subconsciously, the public believes that 'bad people' won't protect works of art. Only 'nobles,' only those with noble souls, will safeguard civilization. By binding our names to these sacred things, we gain a kind of 'moral immunity.'"

He pointed out the window toward the Metropolitan Museum of Art: "Five hundred years from now, people will only remember who protected these works of art, not who signed the checks that bought them. Just as no one remembers that the Medici family made their fortune through moneylending, people only remember that they patronized Michelangelo."

"Moreover, we not only have to donate money, but also sign the most stringent terms."

Victor pulled a fifty-page draft donation agreement from the pile of documents, turned to the last page, and pointed to a line of inconspicuous small print.

"Look here—'Permanent naming rights'."

Katie leaned closer for a look, her pupils contracting slightly. The text was printed in the smallest font size; without careful reading, it could easily be mistaken for a simple disclaimer. But in the world of law, this small print carried more weight than the military.

"This means that no matter what happens in the future, no matter how tarnished the Corleone family's reputation becomes, even if I'm sent to the electric chair, even if Vought Pharmaceuticals goes bankrupt, the Metropolitan Museum of Art has no right to remove my name from the wall. Unless they return that one hundred million dollars with interest. And believe me, the museum will never return the money. They're like money-devouring beasts, forever hungry, forever greedy."

This is the ultimate arrogance, and also the ultimate form of kidnapping.

He wanted to nail his family name into the very fabric of American culture, like a nail, so that it would become inseparable from the noble arts and sacred history.

Katie fell silent. She looked at Victor, a hint of awe in her eyes. She had initially thought this was just an expensive public relations event, but she hadn't expected such a profound scheme to be hidden behind it.

Victor did not stop.

"Shhh..."

He tore off the check with a swift and decisive motion.

"Go ahead." He handed the piece of paper, worth one hundred million dollars, to Sophia. "Tell the curator that I'm very interested in the ancient Rome exhibit, especially the sections on the history of imperial conquests. I don't want to see those boring annotations about 'tyrants.' History is written by the victors, and right now, we are the victors."

Sofia took the check, looked at the number on it, and smiled.

"I'll make the arrangements. The curator is already waiting. He said he's always felt that the history of the Roman Empire has been misunderstood and that it needs a patron who truly understands it."

"Also," Victor said, turning to look out the window as if remembering something, "how's it going at Harvard?"

Mentioning Harvard, Sophia's expression became somewhat subtle. She put down her coffee cup and sighed softly, "Yes. The dean of Harvard Medical School, that old man named Edmund, is still hesitant. He feels our money is 'too hot to handle.' After all, the controversy surrounding the Apollo program is still ongoing, and some professors have privately criticized our marketing strategy as too aggressive. They worry that accepting our donation will affect their academic reputation."

"Too hot to handle?"

"That's because he hasn't seen enough money yet."

Victor stated firmly, "Tell him we're not buying his conscience; we're 'investing in the future of medicine.' If ten million isn't enough, then twenty million. If twenty million isn't enough, then we'll build him a national-level laboratory. What I'm buying isn't just naming rights, but the right to define the entire field of pain medicine."

He turned to Sophia and Katie, his eyes burning with ambition: "This is 'academic capture.' We'll make the Harvard professors understand that opposing us is opposing scientific progress. Nobody turns down money. If they do, it's because they don't have enough."