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

In Boston, the evening breeze along the Charles River carries a damp mist as it passes through the old red-brick buildings.

Victor stood under the crystal chandelier, holding a glass of freshly poured champagne.

He was wearing a dark blue Briony suit, but even surrounded by Boston Brahmins in tweed suits with that languid "my great-great-grandfather was a school board member" look on their faces, he still stood out, looking incredibly cool!

Too sharp, too dangerous, and too...new.

"They looked at us like we were two robbers who had just robbed a bank," Sofia said, linking her arm with his, her voice low but still with a social smile on her lips.

She wore a black velvet evening gown and a ruby ​​necklace around her neck, which Victor had bought for her at a Sotheby's auction; it was said to have once belonged to a Russian Grand Duchess.

"Not just robbers, but two Italian robbers who don't know the rules." Victor gently swirled his glass. "See that old man over there talking loudly about the sailing race? That's the current head of the Cabot family. In this circle, if you don't have a yacht docked in Newport, or your surname doesn't trace back to the Mayflower, you're practically invisible."

Although Victor had donated five million dollars to the Harvard Alumni Foundation to secure his "ticket" tonight, he and Sophia were still separated by an invisible wall in this hall. People nodded politely to them, then quickly turned away to continue talking about topics only their circle understood—summer retreats, family trust dividends, and which nephew had joined a secret society at Yale.

This is the highest form of arrogance. They don't need to humiliate you; they just need to ignore you.

"Then what are we here for?" Sofia's eyes flashed with impatience. "To endure this cold treatment?"

"To buy a 'bishop's' blessing." Victor's gaze swept through the crowd and landed on a figure by the fireplace in the center of the hall. "In this country, if you want to sell an addictive drug, you need two things: FDA approval and the endorsement of Harvard Medical School."

That figure was none other than the protagonist of the evening—Dr. Edmund Wilson, Dean of Harvard Medical School.

He looked to be around sixty years old, with gray hair and wearing gold-rimmed glasses, exuding the authority of an academic titan. He was surrounded by a group of young professors and researchers, like a cardinal preaching a sermon.

Victor straightened his cuffs and strode over.

"Let's go, let's break down this wall."

……

There was a brief pause in their conversation as Victor and Sophia approached the fireplace.

Dean Wilson turned around, scrutinizing the two uninvited guests through his glasses. There was no hostility in his eyes, only a faint sense of detachment, as if he were looking at two lost tourists.

"Dean Wilson," Victor extended his hand, "I am Victor Corleone, Chairman of Water Pharmaceuticals. It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

Wilson hesitated for half a second before reaching out and gently shaking hands.

"Mr. Corleone," Wilson said softly, with the characteristic nasal tone of New England, "I've heard of your company. Lately, you've been making quite a splash on Wall Street…"

A low chuckle escaped the surrounding professors. In the academic hierarchy, Wall Street, while providing funding, also represented greed and shortsightedness.

"The commotion is because we're solving a problem." Victor didn't back down; he smiled and withdrew his hand. "Pain, Dean. This is the last frontier of medicine. And Water Pharmaceuticals is dedicated to conquering this frontier."

"Pain?" Wilson raised an eyebrow slightly. "Mr. Corleone, the purpose of medicine is to cure disease, not simply eliminate symptoms. If we only focus on eliminating pain, what's the difference between us and a street vendor selling drugs for a life of debauchery?"

These words were like a thorn stuck in Victor's background. The air froze instantly. Several young researchers wore gloating expressions, waiting to see this nouveau riche make a fool of himself.

This is typical academic arrogance—setting "commercial interests" against "medical ethics" in order to highlight one's own superiority.

Victor wasn't angry. On the contrary, his smile deepened.

"You're right, Dean. Medicine is not only a science, but also a humanitarian endeavor."

Victor pulled a neatly folded document from the inside pocket of his suit.

"It is precisely because of this humanitarian spirit that Water Pharmaceuticals has decided to establish a ten-year 'Pain Management Special Research Fund.' We will dedicate ourselves to studying the devastating impact of chronic pain on human quality of life."

He handed over the documents, but didn't let go. Instead, he looked Wilson in the eye and said, word by word, "Initial investment: one hundred million US dollars."

The noise in the hall seemed to have been muted.

The professors who had just been mocking Victor were now frozen in shock.

One hundred million US dollars.

In 97, this money was enough to establish three national-level laboratories, fund fifty tenured positions, and even allow Harvard Medical School to build another laboratory building named after the donor.

Wilson's pupils contracted sharply. He maintained his composed demeanor, but his gaze involuntarily fell upon the document. It was the allure of resources, the allure of academic power.

“Mr. Corleone,” Wilson’s voice was a little hoarse, “Harvard is not just a school; it’s also the gatekeeper of academic conscience. We cannot accept donations with ‘attached conditions.’ If you intend to use this money to promote a particular drug…”

“There are no strings attached,” Victor interrupted him, his tone sincere. “This money will be entirely at the disposal of the medical school. The academic committee will have absolute autonomy. Our only hope is that this fund will be used to research the topic of ‘inadequate pain management’.”

This is an elaborate trap.

On the surface, this perfectly aligns with academic freedom. But in reality, once the academic community begins to focus on "undertreatment," the only solution becomes—the more potent and widespread use of painkillers. That is, Aquarius.

This is the essence of "academic capture": don't try to buy doctors' conscience, but change their definition of "conscience." Make them believe that prescribing medicine is not just about making money, but about "saving lives."

Wilson was still hesitating. The intellectual's pride was making a last-ditch effort.

Victor decided to add one last straw.

"Actually, I originally planned to go to Yale," he said casually. "Dean Robert of Yale Medical School was very interested in this project. He even suggested that the center could be named the 'Corleone-Yale Pain Institute.' You know, Yale has always wanted to surpass Harvard in the field of neuroscience."

This blow was fatal.

For academic leaders like Wilson, refusing money might be for the sake of reputation, but losing to Yale? That would be an absolutely unacceptable disgrace. Among the Ivy League schools, the ancient competitive spirit is more sensitive and more deadly than money.

Wilson remained silent for a long ten seconds.

Finally, Wilson reached out and took the document.

"Pain...is indeed an area that has been long neglected by the medical community," Wilson said slowly, his arrogance gone, replaced by academic seriousness, as if his earlier refusal had never happened. "Many patients are suffering needlessly, which is indeed inhumane. As doctors, we have a responsibility to explore better solutions."

"Absolutely right." Victor nodded to the dean. "Refusing to treat pain is a deprivation of a patient's human rights."

"Refusing to treat pain is a violation of human rights," Wilson repeated, his eyes gleaming. "That's powerful. Mr. Corleone, that's very powerful. Perhaps this should be the motto of what we're building... the 'Victor Corleone Pain Medicine Center'."

At that moment, the deal was done.

There were no dirty cash transactions, no conspiracies in dark alleys. Everything was done under crystal chandeliers, amidst the aroma of champagne, in the name of "humanitarianism" and "academic progress."