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

Newark North, New Jersey, basement.

11:45 PM.

"Hurry up! You bunch of brain-dead idiots!"

Fat Tony di Nozo paced back and forth.

"The truck is waiting right outside! Every minute I'm delayed is a thousand dollars being taken from my pocket!"

He casually grabbed a bottle of medicine from the assembly line—if those cobbled-together folding tables and rubber hoses could even be called an assembly line. The liquid inside was murky, with flocculent impurities floating in it.

"Boss," the pharmacist said, his fingers trembling as he twisted the cap, "the mixture is too hot. The reaction is unstable. Perhaps we should let it cool down!"

"I didn't pay you to lecture me on thermodynamics!" Fat Tony roared, his voice echoing in the basement. "I paid you to fill bottles! Get moving!"

boom!

The steel security door at the top of the stairs was blown away.

A stun grenade rolled down the concrete steps with a clanging sound before exploding with a deafening roar. A blinding white light instantly engulfed the entire basement, and the massive sound slammed into everyone's chests.

"DEA! Get down! Everyone get down!"

"Police! Search warrant!"

Chaos erupted instantly. A tactical SWAT team, fully armed, surged in like a tidal wave, the beams of MP5 submachine guns and tactical flashlights crisscrossing the smoke and precisely cutting through the darkness.

"My eyes! My eyes!" the pharmacist screamed, clutching his face and rolling on the ground.

Despite his size, Fat Tony displayed astonishing agility. His survival instincts, honed through years of navigating the streets of New Jersey, saved him. He didn't reach for the gun at his waist—drawing a gun in front of the SWAT team would be suicidal. Instead, he sprinted towards the end of the room, using both hands and feet.

There was an old fire door. A rusty iron door leading to the storm drain system. That was his escape route, his Plan B.

He rushed to the door, his lungs pounding like bellows. He grabbed the handle and pushed hard.

Not moving.

"What?" Fat Tony slammed into the door again, pressing down with his entire 300-pound weight. The door remained welded to the wall as if it were made of glass.

Panic swept over him, piercing the numbing effect of adrenaline. He lowered his head, looking in the corner of his tactical flashlight.

On the outside of the latch, a brand new, heavy-duty padlock with a "V" mark had been welded on.

Is that Victor?!

Victor reported him and sealed him in a "coffin"!

"Don't move, Di Nozo!"

Hank Schrader’s voice boomed behind him.

Fat Tony slowly turned around. The dark muzzle of a Glock 17 was pointed directly at his forehead. Behind the muzzle, Hank's eyes burned with a flame that was a mixture of triumphant pleasure and disgust.

"It's over, Tony," Hank growled. "Keep your hands where I can see them."

Fat Tony raised his trembling hands.

"It wasn't me!" Fat Tony screamed, his voice trembling. "I was just a partner! It was Corleone! It was Victor Corleone! He's the mastermind! He gave me the formula! He designed all of this!"

Hank stepped forward, kicked fat Tony's legs apart, slammed him against the rusty iron door, and expertly handcuffed him.

"We'll find out," Hank said, panting. "You have the right to remain silent. Every word you've said..."

"I won't remain silent! I'll confess! I'll tell you everything! Search the office! Search the safe! The contracts are all in there!"

......

One hour later.

The basement was illuminated as if it were daytime by portable floodlights. DEA agents wearing gas masks were taking samples and photographing the metal drums containing highly toxic sludge.

Hank Schrader stood in that makeshift office, a glass-enclosed cubicle in a corner of the factory. He was frantically searching through the safe that had just been opened.

empty.

No, it's not empty. It's stuffed with receipts.

Every receipt for the purchase of industrial alcohol was signed by: Anthony di Nozo.

Every lease agreement for the factory was signed by: Anthony di Nozo.

Every worker's pay record was signed: Anthony di Nozo.

"Agent Schrader," Grimz said, walking in with an evidence bag. "We found the ledger."

Hank grabbed it eagerly: "Let me see."

He flipped through the pages rapidly. With each page he turned, his heart sank a little deeper.

This is a crudely handwritten notebook. It meticulously records every sale, every bribe, and every shipment of Gallon "Deep Purple." However, the names "Vot Pharmaceuticals" or "Victor Corleone" never appear once.

"Where's the money for Victor?" Hank suddenly turned around and stared intently at Fat Tony, who was slumped in his chair.

"I'll give him cash!" Fat Tony was sweating profusely, his eyes glazed over. "Every month! Half a million! Sometimes more! Just cash!"

"Do you have a receipt?" Hank asked sarcastically.

"Who the hell takes bribes and issues receipts?!" Fat Tony yelled in despair.

"Exactly." Hank slammed the ledger down on the table. "Without a written record, this is just your empty talk."

"Check that consulting agreement!" Fat Tony pointed to the filing cabinet, as if grasping at a last straw. "He signed a consulting agreement with me!"

Hank found the document. It was a standard legal contract printed on coated paper.

Independent Contractor Agreement

*Party A: Anthony Di Nozo Enterprises

Party B: Wotech Medical Consulting Co., Ltd.

Scope of Work: Party B will only provide general business advice regarding logistics and supply chain management. Party B assumes no responsibility for Party A's specific business operations.

*Article 14: Compliance. Party A undertakes to comply with all federal and state laws. If Party A engages in any illegal activity, this contract will be immediately and automatically void, and Party B shall not bear any joint liability.*

Hank stared at the signature at the bottom. It wasn't Victor's name.

The signature reads: "Saul Goodman, legal representative".

"You son of a bitch," Hank muttered under his breath.

"What's wrong?" Grimald leaned closer.

"This is a firewall." Hank closed the folder. "Legally, it's called 'piercing the corporate veil.' This contract was designed to ensure we could never pierce it. Victor was completely legally isolated. He advised Tony, Tony broke the law, the contract was void. Victor walked away cleanly."

He looked at Fat Tony. The once arrogant mob boss was now looking at him with desperate, pleading eyes.

"You're going to take the blame for those murders, Tony," Hank said coldly. "Three kids dead. Five blind. It's life imprisonment, no parole. And you're going to have to shoulder it all alone."

Fat Tony slumped into his chair. The light in his eyes went out. He finally realized that from the very beginning, he had never been a partner.

.....

Corleone Estate, study.

1:30 AM.

The flames in the fireplace flickered and crackled. Apart from the murmur of the television, the room was deathly silent.

Victor sat in a high-backed leather chair, a glass of Evian mineral water in his hand. He hadn't drunk any alcohol tonight. He needed to be absolutely sober.

On the television screen, breaking news was broadcasting live footage of Newark's North Side.

"The DEA has just raided a large underground drug manufacturing facility in the North District. Notorious mob boss Anthony 'Fat Tony' di Nozzo has been arrested..."*

The camera zooms in. Fat Tony is being forced into a police car by two agents. He is disheveled, his hair is messy, and he is screaming something frantically at the camera, but his voice is blocked by the thick bulletproof glass, and only his distorted mouth can be seen.

Victor stared silently at that face.

He remembered that day! A rainy day, his father's funeral. Fat Tony's feet propped up on the desk, and the secretly taken photos of his sister.

The debt has been paid off.

Victor took a sip of water. The water was sweet.