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

Washington, D.C., National Cathedral.

Autumn winds swirled fallen leaves around the Gothic spire of the church. This colossal structure, built of Indiana limestone, appeared particularly solemn under the overcast sky.

Victor stood beneath the church's enormous rose window, gazing up at the dazzling, colorful stained glass.

"Is this the peace you've been looking for?" Sophia stood behind him, holding a book of hymns with gold lettering.

"No, Sophia." Victor's gaze lingered on the stained glass depicting the Last Judgment. "I'm looking for a price."

"price?"

"Everything has a price, even the redemption of the soul. Medieval popes understood this long ago, which is why they invented indulgences. You've sinned? No problem, give God some money, and your soul is cleansed. Simple, efficient, and commercially sound."

Sofia raised an eyebrow: "I thought we were here to attend church, not to discuss business."

"In Washington, is there any difference between the two?"

Victor straightened his tie and strode deeper into the church. There, a cardinal in a crimson robe was waiting for him.

..

Half an hour ago, in the bishop's private reception room.

Instead of the awe-inspiring emptiness of a church hall, this place is filled with worldly luxury: Persian carpets, Renaissance paintings, and the scent of top-grade sandalwood in the air.

Cardinal McCarrick sat in a high-backed chair, a cup of black tea in his hand. He looked kind and gentle, but a shrewd glint shone in his deep-set eyes—the kind of cunning seen only in the eyes of politicians and businessmen.

"Mr. Corleone," the bishop said, setting down his teacup, his voice gentle yet firm, "I thank you on behalf of the Church for your generosity. That new organ will make the voice of God even louder."

Victor sat on the sofa opposite him, took a check out of his pocket, and gently placed it on the table.

It was a check for two million dollars.

“Not just the organ, Your Excellency,” Victor said with a smile, “I also hope to fund the church’s renovations. Especially those rickety gargoyles; they look like they need some…maintenance.”

The bishop's gaze lingered on the check for a second before quickly looking away. He clasped his hands together in a prayerful gesture: "God will remember your good deed, my child."

“But I’ve heard,” Victor said in a low voice, “that some people within the church… have some misunderstandings about me. They think my money has a ‘medicinal smell.’”

The bishop's expression stiffened slightly. Indeed, ever since rumors began circulating about the painkillers, some conservative clergy within the church had expressed concern about accepting donations from Walter Pharmaceuticals.

"Rumors and gossip are inevitable," the bishop sighed, his gaze sweeping over the check again. "But what the Church values ​​is a repentant heart. As it says in the Gospel of Luke: 'I tell you, in the same way, God’s angels rejoice over one sinner who repents.'"

"Repentance," Victor murmured, savoring the word. "Father, if someone has to sacrifice one person to save a thousand, is that a sin?"

The bishop was stunned. He looked at Victor, trying to read something in the young man's eyes. But all he saw was a deep darkness.

"Is this a theological problem or a business problem?" the bishop asked cautiously.

"Both." Victor stood up, walked to the window, and looked at the gray sky outside. "In the pharmaceutical industry, we call it 'risk-reward ratio.' But in the church, I think you call it... God's will?"

The bishop was silent for a moment. He reached out and gently slipped the check into his sleeve.

"God looks at the result, child," the bishop's voice deepened. "As long as the outcome is good, the sacrifices along the way may be necessary trials. As long as you continue to do good, God will forgive you."

Victor turned around, a smile on his face.

"Thank you for your guidance, Father. I think I'm feeling much better now."

...

The confessional. It was a small, dark space.

Although he had just made a "deal" with the bishop, he still insisted on a formal confession. It was his habit—to separate business from ritual, even though they were essentially the same thing.

"Forgive me, Father, for I am guilty." Victor's voice echoed in the small space.

An aged voice came from the other end of the grille: "Speak, child. God is listening."

"I lied," Victor said in a low voice. "I lied to the public, I lied to the doctors, I lied to my family."

"Lies are the language of the devil."

"But I obtained the truth through lies. I obtained medicine to heal my pain, scholarships to support the poor, and funds to repair the church through lies. Father, if lies can bring you to heaven, is it still a sin?"

There was a long silence on the other side of the grille.

"You are not seeking forgiveness, child," the old priest said, his voice trembling slightly. "You are trying to negotiate with God."

“No, Father.” Victor stood up, a sharp pain shooting through his knee, but it brought him to his senses. “I’m not negotiating. I’m making a payment.”

He pushed open the confessional door and strode out.

...

Outside the church, in the square.

The sunlight finally pierced through the thick clouds and shone on Victor. He took a deep breath of the cold air, feeling every cell in his lungs cheer.

Sofia was standing next to a black Lincoln sedan, waiting for him.

"nailed it?"

"It's all settled." Victor buttoned up his coat. "The bishop is a reasonable man. Or rather, God is a reasonable businessman."

"That's good." Sophia opened the car door. "Daniel has made a move. He received that anonymous package and is now as excited as a shark that has smelled blood."

"Very good." Victor got into the car, leaned back in the soft leather seat, and closed his eyes. "Let him investigate. Let him cause trouble. The bigger the trouble, the better."

The car started and drove away from the magnificent church.

Viktor looked out the car window at the receding spires and cross. The golden cross shimmered in the sunlight.

"Sophia".

"Um?"

"Do you think there would be a larger market if we turned 'faith' into a product, like medicine?"

Sofia turned her head and looked at Victor.

"Faith is free, Victor."

“No, my dear,” Victor shook his head. “Faith is the most expensive luxury. People are willing to pay far more for it than for medicine. Because medicine can only heal the body, while faith… can heal fear.”

He took the coin he had been clutching tightly in the confessional from his pocket and flicked it gently into the air.

"Maybe in the future, we should open a church."

The coin landed on the back of his hand. Heads.

"Amen," Victor said softly.