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

Atlantic City.

David Rossi sat in a jazz bar deep inside the Caesars Palace Hotel, in the innermost corner.

A glass of whiskey with double the ice sits before him. As a first-level investigator at the FDA, Rossi possesses a unique bureaucratic air—a meticulousness and rigidity cultivated from years of reviewing documents and scrutinizing errors.

But tonight, this sturdy exterior is cracking.

He pulled a letter from his inside suit pocket; the envelope was crumpled and crumpled. It was from his ex-wife's lawyer.

"Given Mr. Rossi's failure to pay alimony on time last quarter, we will have to apply to the court for enforcement, including but not limited to freezing his payroll account..."

Each word felt like a slap in the face, striking his fiercely proud cheek.

Three thousand US dollars per month.

To maintain the last shred of dignity in his supposedly "respectable family" after its collapse, and to keep his children in private school, he took on debt far exceeding his civil servant salary. His rented apartment in Washington was a mere 30 square meters, his refrigerator sparsely stocked except for expired milk, while his ex-wife lived in a large suburban house he paid for, dating her tennis coach.

Rossi took a big gulp of wine; the spicy liquid burned his throat, but it couldn't extinguish the anger in his heart.

"Damn Hemingway," he muttered under his breath, "this world isn't worth fighting for."

"The world is a beautiful place, worth fighting for... Hemingway did say that."

A soft, husky female voice sounded from his right, "But I guess you agree more with his next assessment right now."

Rossi turned his head alertly, his professional instincts prompting him to quickly scan the other person.

Sitting at the bar was a woman in a camel-colored cashmere coat. She was around thirty years old, with her hair pulled back in a low bun, revealing her long, fair neck. She wore a pair of elegant frameless glasses on her nose, and instead of a fashion magazine or designer handbag, she held a well-worn copy of "A Farewell to Arms."

She seemed out of place in this casino filled with nouveau riche and pleasure-seekers. She had an air of scholarly refinement about her, and a loneliness that shared his.

"I only agree with the second half." The woman gently swirled her martini, her eyes glazed over as she stared at the green olive in the glass. "The first half is a lie. Or maybe it's just drunken ramblings."

Rossi's defense loosened a little.

"David," he introduced himself simply, without mentioning his surname or occupation.

"Elena." The woman turned her head, a weary smile playing on her lips. "Columbia University, Department of Comparative Literature. If I don't write a paper on 'Postwar Nihilism' by next week, I'll lose my teaching position."

"Comparative literature?" Rossi raised an eyebrow. "Then you've come to the wrong place. There are only numbers and desires here, no literature."

"Maybe," Elena chuckled self-deprecatingly, her fingers gently tracing the book cover. "But I just finalized my divorce. My lawyer suggested I find a place where nobody knows me and do something crazy, or... just drink a glass of unsweetened bitter wine."

divorce.

This word is like an invisible thread that instantly binds two strangers together.

"What a coincidence." Rossi raised his glass, this time with a genuine bitterness in his smile. "To the damned marriage law."

"To that damned lawyer." Elena raised her glass and lightly clinked it against his.

The crisp sound of glass colliding is the first signal that the trap is closing.

This is a script meticulously crafted by Victor Corleone. In this script, there are no scantily clad prostitutes, no blatant monetary transactions. For an intellectual like David Rossi, with his high self-esteem and extreme moral fastidiousness, only a "highly educated woman who shares his plight" can break down his defenses.

This is the "Ti" among the eight generals of "Qianmen"—using emotional resonance to build a bridge, allowing the prey to walk down on their own.

Over the next two hours, alcohol and shared pain forged an unbreakable bond between the two.

They talked about Hemingway's tough-guy escapism, Fitzgerald's corrupting influence of money on the soul, and the oppression and frustration within the system. Elena not only understood books, but also men. She wasn't just listening; she was guiding. She looked at Rossi with admiration as he complained about FDA bureaucracy, and responded to his financial pressure with a sympathetic sigh.

She made Rossi feel that he was not a failed middle-aged civil servant, but a hero misunderstood by the vulgar world.

"Actually, places like this aren't so bad." After a few rounds of drinks, Elena's face was slightly flushed, and her eyes were a little hazy as she pointed to the noisy casino lobby outside the bar. "Sometimes, you need a little pure excitement to prove you're still alive. Even if it's just watching that little ivory ball bounce on the roulette wheel."

"I don't gamble," Rossi instinctively refused.

"I'm not asking you to gamble your life away," Elena said with a smile, taking his hand. Her palm was warm and dry. "It's just a hundred dollars. Consider it a ticket to see if Lady Luck still hates us tonight."

She leaned closer, her breath brushing against Rossi's ear: "If you win, it'll be luck; if you lose, you'll be paying for your past foolishness. Dare you, Mr. Investigator?"

Looking at her defiant yet expectant gaze, Rossi nodded almost unconsciously.

The casino lobby was brightly lit, windowless, and clockless. The design psychology here had only one purpose: to make people forget time, forget consequences, and only experience the immediate pleasure.

Rossi had an unusually good luck.

At the Blackjack table, he seemed to be possessed by a god.

"Twenty points, the dealer busts." The dealer's voice sounded like heavenly music.

The chips in front of him started at one hundred dollars, then became five hundred, then one thousand, and then two thousand.

The adrenaline rush filled the void even more effectively than sex. The envious glances from the surrounding gamblers, the feeling of Elena's tight grip on his arm—all these gave him a long-lost sense of control. Here, he didn't need to worry about his boss or the bills; a single card could decide everything.

"Look, you're blessed," Elena whispered in his ear. "Perhaps this is the turning point."

Rossi looked at the stack of colorful chips in his hand, and a sense of unreal omnipotence welled up within him. Perhaps, I really could win that three thousand dollars? Or even more?

"Want to go big again?" the dealer asked with a smile, a smile so perfect it was like a mask.

At this point, Rossi could no longer hear the voice of reason. He felt that he was Caesar, and this was his palace.

However, luck is the casino's most unreliable friend and its cruelest killer.

The next hour was a nightmarish descent.

First, he lost a bet of 500, and Rossi told himself it was just an accident. Then he bet 1000, hoping to win back what he had just lost. Then, he lost three more bets in a row.

The two thousand chips I won have all been lost.

He wasn't satisfied. He went to the counter and exchanged another thousand dollars, which was the last bit of credit he had on his credit card.

Fifteen minutes later, the thousand dollars had vanished.

Rossi's eyes reddened. He loosened his tie, his forehead covered in fine beads of sweat. The weightless feeling of falling from the clouds was driving him mad. He couldn't just leave like this; to leave would be to be a loser, to admit he was a complete and utter failure.

"Give me another thousand!" He slammed his credit card on the table.

"I'm sorry, sir, your card has been rejected."

These words were like a bucket of ice water poured over his head. Rossi froze on the spot, and the gazes of those around him shifted from envy to mockery. Elena released her grip on his arm, seemingly disappointed.

That disappointed look stung Rossi.

"Sir, if you want to recoup your losses..."

A floor manager in a tuxedo appeared at just the right moment. He was holding a black folder and had a professional, concerned smile on his face.

"Since you are Miss Elena's friend, and therefore a friend of Caesar's Palace, we can offer you a temporary credit line. All it takes is a simple signature."

The manager opened the folder, revealing a beautifully formatted table.

That was a "casino IOU".

Under New Jersey law, this is more than just a promissory note. It has the same legal effect as a demand check.

Rossi stared at the paper, his alcohol-numbed mind focused solely on those few hands where he'd almost lost. Just one more hand, just one more, and he could have won back the money, paid off the alimony, and saved face in front of Elena.

"How much?" His voice was hoarse, like that of a drowning person.

"Fifty thousand." The manager smiled and handed over a gold pen. "For a respectable person like you, this is just a small amount. It's enough for you to easily recoup your losses."

Fifty thousand. That was more than half a year's salary for him.

But at this moment, in his eyes, it was just a bargaining chip to turn the tide.

Rossi's hands trembled as he took the pen. In the instant he signed, he felt as if something inside him shattered. But he didn't stop.

He signed the name that would drag him to hell: David Rossi.

……

The morning sunlight shone through the gaps in the heavy curtains, stinging Rossi's eyes.

He woke up in the hotel bed with a splitting headache, his throat was as dry as if he had swallowed a handful of sand, and his stomach was churning.

Memories, like shards of a broken mirror, pierced his mind piece by piece—the literature professor, the martini, blackjack, a resounding victory, a crushing defeat, the manager in the tuxedo, the gold pen, the signature...

signature!

Rossi sat up abruptly, her pajamas instantly soaked with cold sweat.

The room was empty. Elena was gone. She hadn't left a note. It was as if she'd never existed.

There was something on the bedside table.

That casino IOU (marker) with his own signature, for $50,000.

Next to the IOU, there was a neatly stacked stack of photos. The photos were not only clear, but also taken from bizarre angles: his face flushed as he roared at the gambling table, his arms around Elena as he kissed her, and most fatally—a close-up of him signing the marker with a greedy, delirious expression.

The door opened.

It wasn't Elena who walked in, but a man. He was holding another cup of coffee and looked calm.

"Blue Mountain coffee, freshly ground. It's very effective for hangovers."

Victor Corleone placed the coffee on the bedside table and pulled up a chair to sit down.

"Victor...?" Rossi instinctively pulled the blanket over herself, her pupils contracting sharply, her voice trembling violently, "What are you doing here?"

“Who I am is unimportant, Agent Rossi,” Victor said gently, pointing to the IOU. “What matters is that this piece of paper is now in my hands. And the creditor has been transferred from Caesars Palace to one of my asset management companies.”

"What do you want? To blackmail a federal agent?" Rossi tried to project the authority of an FDA investigator, but his pale face and trembling lips betrayed him.

"Extortion? No, no, no." Victor shook his head. "I want to give you a basic lesson in New Jersey law."

He looked into Rossi's eyes, those deep eyes held no trace of a smile, only cold calculation.

"In New Jersey, issuing a bad check is a felony. This marker is legally a check. If you can't pay it back, and of course, we all know you can't, it becomes a bounced check."

Victor held up one finger: "Under the law, anything over $75,000 is a second-degree felony, and $50,000, well, that's enough to put you in jail for three to five years. Oh, and by the way, because you're a federal employee, that will also trigger additional 'misconduct in public office' charges."

Rossi's face drained of color.

He knew perfectly well that it was true. Casino IOUs were essentially checks, a killer feature for casinos and a privilege granted to them by law.

"You don't have 50,000 in cash, and you don't even have 5,000 in your bank account."

"Once I hand this paper to the prosecutor, your career is over. You'll lose your job, your pension, and go to jail. Your ex-wife will sue you for not getting alimony, and your children will have a father in jail."

"Is this the ending you wanted? For one night of indulgence?"

The room was deathly silent.

Rossi looked at the thin piece of paper and felt it was heavier than a mountain, making it hard for him to breathe.

"That woman," Rossi gritted her teeth, her eyes bloodshot, "Elena, is she one of yours?"

"She's an excellent actress and a PhD in psychology," Victor said casually. "But that's not important. What's important is that we're friends now. Friends can help each other."

He pulled a delicate Zippo lighter from his pocket and lit it with a "click".

An orange-yellow flame licked at one corner of the IOU.

Rossi's eyes widened, his breathing quickened. He watched as the piece of paper that could ruin his life curled up, turned black in the flames, and finally turned to ashes, falling into the crystal ashtray.

To Rossi, the acrid smell of burning paper had a sweet quality, like the scent of rebirth.

"The debt is paid off." Victor patted the dust off his hands, as if brushing off the shackles from Rossi.

But Rossi didn't feel relieved; instead, she felt a deeper, more bone-chilling cold. There's no such thing as a free lunch, especially in Atlantic City. The shackles hadn't disappeared; they'd simply transformed from a tangible debt into an invisible noose.

"What do you want me to do?" Rossi asked.

Victor took a thick document out of his briefcase and placed it on the bedside table.

"I need your signature on the audit report, confirming that Corleone Pharmaceuticals fully complies with GMP standards." Victor stood up, straightened his collar, and said, "Furthermore, I want you to become the new company's 'secret regulatory advisor.' We need professionals like you who understand the rules to guide us on how to operate 'more compliantly.'"

He walked to the door, stopped, and looked back at Rossi, who was slumped on the bed, seemingly devoid of any soul.

"Don't be so discouraged, David. You've just lost a false moral halo, but you've gained a prosperous future."

Victor pushed open the door, and light poured in from the corridor, casting a long shadow of him, like a huge demon looming over Rossi.

Welcome to the adult world.

The door closed.

Rossi looked at the pile of ashes in the ashtray, then at the thick document.

He reached out with trembling hands and picked up the document.

He knew that from this moment on, David Rossie, the upright, impoverished FDA agent who prided himself on moral self-discipline, was dead on this bed.

The one who survived was Victor Corleone's dog. A dog that wore a suit, wielded power, but was chained around its neck.

Outside the window, the roar of the Atlantic Ocean continued, as if mocking all the perseverance and depravity in the world.