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

If Harvard Club is a monastery of power, then Hampton is a playground of power.

At the eastern end of Long Island, the salty sea breeze of the Atlantic Ocean blows through Meadow Lane, known as "Billionaire Lane."

Time seems to pass more slowly here than outside. There are no horns, no crowds, only the sound of waves crashing on the beach.

Victor stood on the terrace of a seaside mansion called "Dune Castle," holding a glass of Earl Grey tea with ice.

He wore a beige linen suit, the shirt collar slightly open, revealing his bronze skin. This was the Hamptons' "uniform"—wearing a dark wool suit here would be seen as being an unruly Wall Street laborer; only this seemingly casual yet extremely expensive linen fabric could convey that sense of "I don't need to work" relaxation.

"This place smells like money." Sophia walked up to him, holding a folding fan in her hand and gently fanning herself.

Today she wore a Chanel haute couture white dress and a wide-brimmed sun hat, making her look like she stepped right out of a fashion magazine cover.

"To be precise, it has the flavor of 'Old Money'," Victor corrected, his gaze sweeping over the group of people talking on the lawn.

This was a top-tier, private party themed "For Ocean Conservation." Tickets weren't bought, but rather "invited." Behind each invitation lay at least a six-figure charitable donation, and more importantly—recognition of family lineage.

Here, there are strict regulations on architectural style: it must be tiled, and the roof color must be a grayish-brown stained by sea winds. No matter how rich you are, if you dare to build a Versailles-style French villa or a modern building with glass curtain walls, you will receive a lawyer's letter from the community committee the next day.

This is the old money's rule: understated luxury and exclusive aesthetics.

A month ago, Victor and Sophia couldn't even see the doorman here. But since the announcement of the $100 million check for Harvard, the tightly closed door has finally cracked open.

"See that old lady feeding the horses over there?" Victor whispered. "That's the widow of the Vanderbilt family. She has a list of some of the top charitable committees in New York. If you want to get into that circle, you need her approval first."

Sofia scoffed. "She looked at me like I was a maid in Prada. These people's arrogance comes from their very bones. They don't need to say a word; just one 'who did your ancestors do?' look is enough to make you feel like trash."

"Be patient, Sophia." Victor gently touched her glass. "This is the last hurdle. Once we cross it, we'll be safe."

This is more than just a party. It's the final step—the confirmation of social status. Legally, Victor may still be a drug dealer operating in a gray area; but socially, as long as he can stand here and chat and laugh with these people, he's "one of us."

...

At the heart of the party was a huge white tent filled with long tables covered with linen tablecloths flown in from Ireland, and set with crystal glasses and silver cutlery.

This is a tradition known as a "white party." Everyone wears white or beige clothing, which looks dazzling in the sunlight. From a distance, it looks like a corner of paradise, pure and untouched by filth.

Sofia walked alone to the corner known as the "ladies' circle".

Five or six elegantly dressed ladies, ranging in age from thirty to sixty, sat there, all with the same taut skin (thanks to Swiss sheep placenta extract) and the same empty, listless eyes. They were talking about a recent polo match and a private exhibition of works by a French painter.

The conversation stopped abruptly as Sofia approached, as if an electric current had been cut off.

Several pairs of eyes fell on her at the same time, filled with scrutiny, criticism, and an undisguised sense of rejection.

"Oh, this must be Mrs. Corleone," a woman in a pale purple silk dress spoke first. She was a member of the Whitney family and held absolute sway in this circle. "I heard you just donated a wing to the Metropolitan Museum of Art? That's... surprisingly generous."

She emphasized the word "generous," as if to say "nouveau riche extravagance."

"That was to protect the artistic heritage of ancient Rome," Sofia replied with a smile. "Victor has always believed that only by understanding the past can we understand the present."

"Ancient Rome?" Another younger noblewoman chuckled, covering her mouth. "I thought people like you... in the pharmaceutical industry, would be more interested in modern art. After all, that suits your 'fast pace' better."

The sarcasm in that statement couldn't be clearer. She's implying that the Corleone family's money is ill-gotten, lacks substance, and is only fit to appreciate modern, money-grubbing trash.

A low chuckle escaped from the surrounding ladies. It was a form of group bullying, using elegant language to mask the most vicious exclusion.

Sophia wasn't angry. She slowly closed the folding fan.

"Speaking of modern art, I've recently been reading Vasari's 'Lives of the Artists.' He mentions that true patrons of the arts need not only money, but also discerning taste. For example, the Medici family, although they were 'nouveau riche' who made their fortune through moneylending, would not have had the Florentine Renaissance without them."

She paused for a moment, her gaze sweeping over everyone present.

"As for certain so-called 'old money' families, besides guarding the trust funds left by their ancestors and holding these pointless tea parties in some nearly moldy manor, what have they left for human civilization?"

The Whitney women turned pale. Sofia not only retaliated, but she retaliated with their most prized "cultural capital." She directly tore away this veil of pretense—in this circle, whose ancestors didn't rise to power through bloodshed? The Medici did, the Rockefellers did, and the Whitneys did too.

"You're right, child."

An old but dignified voice broke the silence.

Everyone turned around in surprise. The speaker was none other than the old lady who had been feeding the horses nearby—Mrs. Vanderbilt. She had walked over at some point, carrying an ivory-inlaid cane.

Her cloudy but still sharp eyes stared at Sophia for a long time before revealing a hint of appreciative smile.

"The Medici family...it's been a long time since anyone dared to mention that name on this lawn." The old lady tapped the ground lightly with her cane. "Young people these days only know Andy Warhol's canned goods, but have forgotten Michelangelo's muscles. You're quite interesting, Madame Corleone. Much more interesting than these gossipy scarecrows."

"Thank you for your compliment, Madam." Sophia curtsied slightly, performing a perfect courtly bow.

"Next month I'm organizing a charity gala to raise funds for the New York Public Library." The old lady took off a seemingly unremarkable silk bracelet from her wrist and handed it to Sofia. "I hope you can join the organizing committee. We need some...fresh blood. Or rather, a spark of Sicilian fire."

The ladies around gasped.

That bracelet was a badge of the committee's core members. In this circle, it wasn't just an ornament, but a medal. It meant you had the power to decide who sat at the head table and who was relegated to a corner near the restrooms. It was a power scarcer than money—the power of social distribution.

Sofia took the bracelet and put it on her wrist. The red silk contrasted against her fair skin, like a victory flag.

"It would be my great honor."