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

Autumn 1981. Corleone Estate, New Jersey.

As night falls, this once dilapidated Gothic building, covered in ivy, seems to be ablaze with life.

Hundreds of crystal chandeliers illuminated the hall as if it were daytime. The lawn in front of the estate was filled with luxury cars—Cadillacs, Lincolns, and several newly launched Mercedes-Benz SL convertibles.

This was Victor's first dinner party after redeeming the estate.

It was also his coronation ceremony.

In the center of the hall, a three-meter-high champagne tower was flowing. The golden liquid slid down the sides of the glass, making a pleasant tinkling sound, much like the sound of gold coins falling into a bag.

Models dressed in revealing outfits carried caviar and foie gras as they moved through the crowd.

New Jersey politicians, sheriffs, judges, gangsters... people who might attack each other in the headlines on ordinary days are now raising their glasses, exchanging glances and business cards intimately.

"This is absolutely insane!"

Fat Tony was wearing a slightly tight white suit and a huge gold Rolex watch on his wrist. He was hugging two models and shouting excitedly.

"Look over there! That's City Councilman Williams! He tried to shut down my arcade last week, and now he's drinking my liquor!" Fat Tony popped a piece of caviar into his mouth. "This stuff tastes like salty, fishy snot, but if it's expensive, it's good stuff!"

Saul stood to the side, elegantly adjusting his bow tie.

"That's what you call the value of united front work, Tony," Saul said with a smile. "When you have enough money, it's no longer just money; it becomes votes, political achievements, and the lubricant that keeps the world running."

On the curved balcony on the second floor.

Victor leaned against the railing alone, holding not champagne, but a glass of soda with ice.

He was dressed in a custom-made black tuxedo, the cut perfectly fitting his figure. He stood there quietly, looking down at the revelers below.

"Is this what you wanted, Victor?"

A voice sounded behind him.

It was Jack, the old butler. He was holding a coat, which he gently draped over Victor's shoulders. "It's windy in here."

"No, Jack," Victor shook his soda, "this is just a tactic. Look at these people down here, they're not here to celebrate!"

"The world is bustling with activity, all for profit!"

Just then, a series of hurried footsteps came from the stairwell.

A middle-aged man with a receding hairline came running up, panting. He had a fawning smile on his face and was carrying two glasses of wine.

It's Mr. Smith. The president of the First National Bank of New Jersey. The same man who drove Victor's father to desperation, ultimately leading him to commit suicide by shooting himself.

"Mr. Corleone! So you've been hiding here all this time!" Smith said with a broad smile, a fine layer of sweat beading on his forehead. "I couldn't find you on the first floor, so I must offer you a toast. To...to our great friendship!"

Victor turned around and did not take the glass of wine.

He just watched Smith quietly.

That look in his eyes caused the smile on Smith's face to gradually freeze. His hand holding the wine glass began to tremble slightly.

"Friendship?" Victor repeated the word softly. "Mr. Smith, if I remember correctly, it was right here, in front of my father, that you said the Corleone family was a sinking ship and that you wanted to take away our last plank."

Smith's face turned deathly pale instantly.

"That...that was a misunderstanding! A complete misunderstanding!" he stammered, "The economy was bad back then, and the head office was under pressure from bad debts...but now I know, you are the real business genius! Your foundation, your cash flow, are simply a miracle in New Jersey!"

"So, could you... could you leave the foundation's five million in deposits with our bank?" Smith finally revealed his purpose, his voice almost pleading, "If you transfer them, my branch will face a bank run!"

During the "Volcker Moment" of 1981, the Federal Reserve pushed interest rates up to 20%, and the banking system faced a massive liquidity crunch. Victor's cash was Smith's lifeline.

Victor smiled.

He reached out and gently patted Smith's greasy face.

"Slap, slap."

"Of course, Mr. Smith," Victor said with a smile.

Smith felt as if he had been granted a pardon, his knees buckled and he almost knelt down: "Thank you! Thank you so much! You are my God!"

"But I have one condition," Victor whispered in his ear, in a voice only the two of them could hear. "From today onward, when you see me, I don't want to hear anything about 'friendship' or 'cooperation.'"

"I want you to be as obedient as a dog."

"If you can do it, the money is yours. If you can't..." Victor pointed downstairs, "there are plenty of banks willing to hold this money for me."

Smith froze. A flicker of humiliation crossed his face, but it vanished in an instant. Adults don't need to choose between bankruptcy and dignity.

"Woof."

Smith lowered his head and forced out an onomatopoeic sound from his throat. Though it was very soft, he did make a sound.

Victor nodded in satisfaction, took the glass of wine from his hand, and casually poured it into the flowerpot next to him.

"Go down."

Smith felt like he had been granted a pardon and scrambled downstairs.

Old Jack stood in the shadows and witnessed it all.

"If your father were alive, he would be pleased," old Jack said.

“No, he won’t.” Victor turned around and looked down at the Vanity Fair again. “Father is a good man. He’ll think I’m too cruel, too heartless.”

"But good people can't save a family."

Victor's gaze passed through the crystal chandelier in the hall and looked out at the darkness of the night.

In that darkness, he seemed to see countless eyes staring at the manor. DEA (Denis Agency), FBI (Federal Bureau of Investigation), remnants of the Irish gang, and even those so-called "allies" who were drinking downstairs.

Although the purple water business is extremely profitable, it's like a castle built on a sand dune.

It has no foundation.

If the wind changes direction, or something goes wrong, this celebration can instantly turn into a funeral.

"Jack".

"exist."

"Tell Saul to come to my study after the banquet," Victor's voice deepened. "We've had enough of this game. It's time to think about real business."

"A real business?"

"Yes." Victor took a small, clear glass bottle out of his pocket. Inside was a small blue pill.

That wasn't purple water. It was a sample he had just synthesized in the lab based on his memories from his previous life.

Something that can drive people all over the world crazy and make giants like Pfizer tremble.

"I want to build a real castle," Victor said, looking at the blue pill. "A fortress built with patents, laws, and monopolies, one that will never fall."