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

Babylon Nightclub, VIP Box.

The heavy soundproof doors shut out the deafening bass from the dance floor, leaving only the slight trembling of the floor.

The air inside the private room was like a powder keg that had been ignited.

"Click—"

Fat Tony de Nozo skillfully pulled back the handguard of his Remington shotgun, pushing a red 12 buckshot into the chamber.

His face flushed red, and the veins on his neck bulged like earthworms. The fake smile that was always on his lips was now gone, replaced by a ferocious, beast-like expression.

"Those damn Irish potatoes!"

Tony slammed the gun down on the marble table, making the ice cubes in his wine glass clink.

"They dared to wreck my place! Just two hours ago, that bastard Sean O'Neill sent his men to storm my warehouse in Port Elizabeth, injure three of my brothers, and steal fifty crates of goods!"

He grabbed a bottle of whiskey and took a big gulp straight from the bottle neck. The spicy liquor ran down his chin, soaking his expensive silk shirt.

"Victor, don't stop me. Tonight I'm taking my men to wipe out their hideout! I'm going to cut off O'Neal's head and hang it on a lamppost at the dock!"

In the shadows of the private room, Victor Corleone sat quietly.

He held a glass of iced water with lemon slices in his hand, his expression as calm as if he were listening to a boring opera.

"and then?"

Victor's voice wasn't loud, but it was exceptionally clear in the deathly silent private room.

"What?" Tony paused for a moment, seemingly not understanding.

"I said, what happened after you killed O'Neal?"

Victor put down his water glass, took out a clean white handkerchief from his pocket, and slowly wiped his glasses.

"The police will seal off the entire dock area. The DEA will swarm in like sharks smelling blood. Your nightclubs will be shut down, your men will be arrested, and our factories..."

He put on his glasses, and his gaze behind the lenses coldly pierced Tony.

"It will be completely exposed."

"So what?!" Tony roared. "Are you just going to swallow this? If we don't fight back, tomorrow the entire New Jersey underworld will think I, Fat Tony, am a coward! Who will care about our territory then?"

"A counterattack is necessary. But not with guns."

Victor stood up and walked over to Tony.

He reached out and pressed his hand against the cold barrel of the gun.

"Tony, this is 1980, not 1920s Chicago. You're not Al Capone, and I'm not some outlaw who just wields a Thompson submachine gun."

He looked down at the gang leader, who was twice his size, his tone carrying an unquestionable authority.

"We need to kill with our brains."

Tony looked at Victor, the anger in his eyes slowly subsiding, replaced by suspicion.

"Brain? Can a brain stop a bullet?"

"Your brain can make your enemy shoot bullets into your head."

Victor sat back on the sofa and crossed his legs.

Why are the Irish stealing our goods?

"Because they're greedy! Because heroin isn't selling, their addict customers are all coming to buy purple water!" Tony said bitterly.

"These Irishmen...they're like ghosts from 1920."

Victor looked at the ice cubes swaying in the glass, his tone tinged with disdain.

"They started by controlling dockworkers and engaged in the most primitive forms of robbery and low-end distribution. They looked down on the Italians' 'business acumen' and believed that violence was the only language."

"That's right! Those barbarians!" Tony gritted his teeth. "They think we're just spineless cowards who only know how to calculate."

"That's why they lost."

Victor pushed up his glasses, the lenses reflecting a cold light.

"What if we exploit this greed and give them a 'poisonous gift' laced with something else?"

"A gift?" Tony was taken aback.

Victor took a small brown glass bottle from his briefcase and gently placed it on the table.

"This shipment is a 'gift' I specially prepared for you tonight."

"What's this?" Tony leaned over to take a look.

"Acetaminophen, also known as paracetamol," Victor explained calmly, "and a little bit of industrial toluene."

"This thing can kill people?" Tony looked incredulous. "Isn't paracetamol for headaches? I can easily buy it at the pharmacy."

"At normal doses, it treats headaches."

Victor's voice turned low.

"But when its dosage exceeds 10 grams and is ingested mixed with alcohol..."

He made an explosion gesture.

"It will instantly deplete the liver's glutathione. Then, a metabolic toxin called NAPQI will corrode liver cells like a strong acid."

"That's acute liver failure, Tony. It's extremely painful and irreversible."

"As for toluene..." Victor smiled, "it will cause them to hallucinate. They will see demons, they will see enemies that don't exist. They will go mad, they will attack their own people."

Tony was stunned. Looking at the inconspicuous little bottle on the table, he suddenly felt a chill run down his spine.

“But Victor,” Tony frowned, “that miser O’Neal will definitely want to cash in on the goods immediately. How can we guarantee they’ll drink them themselves and not sell them?”

"Good question."

"If they sell the stolen goods to drug addicts on the street as usual, then this batch of 'gifts' will kill hundreds or thousands of customers. In that case, the police will immediately shut down everything, trace the source, and eventually find us."

Victor snapped his fingers.

"This requires a bit of psychology."

"Tonight, at the trading point at the dock, deliberately leave a loophole. Leave them ten crates of goods. But these ten crates must be labeled with special tags."

"Special label?"

"Yes. Put a gold label on it and write 'Family Reserve' or 'Extremely Pure, Not for Sale'."

"Have your informant spread the word that this batch of goods was specially prepared for entertaining important figures from the Gambino family in New York. It's three times purer than the regular kind and tastes exceptional."

"Sean O'Neill is an arrogant bastard. When he steals the tribute that his rivals 'offer to the big shots,' he would never sell it to a beggar on the street."

"He'll treat it as a trophy, a medal to humiliate you."

"He will be eager to open it and share this 'taste of victory' with his core members."

Tony was stunned for a moment, then took a deep breath and revealed a familiar, chilling smile.

"That move... is fucking insidious."

He put away his shotgun and patted Victor on the shoulder.

"Victor, let me remind you: never let yourself stand against me."

"As long as we're still making money, we'll always be friends, Tony."

Victor answered with a smile, but the smile never reached his eyes.

......

Late at night, Port Elizabeth, New Jersey.

The sea breeze, carrying a salty smell, blew across the empty container yard.

Several black cars sped past, kicking up a cloud of dust. Immediately afterward, a group of Irishmen wearing leather jackets and carrying baseball bats and chains rushed down.

"Haha! Those Italian cowards ran away!"

The red-haired man leading the group was none other than Sean O'Neill. His face was muscular and menacing, and he carried a still-dripping machete. He kicked a box lying on the ground, and the sound of liquid sloshing inside emanated from it.

"Boss! Look!"

One of the younger brothers excitedly pried open the box, revealing neatly arranged purple plastic bottles inside.

Unlike ordinary packaging on the market, these bottles are adorned with dazzling gold labels printed with cursive Italian script.

"What kind of gibberish is this?" the younger brother asked.

"It's a 'family heirloom'."

Sean O'Neill squinted, using the moonlight to make out the writing. He let out a piercing laugh.

"Hahaha! Fat Tony, that fat pig! He sells watered-down junk to those idiots on the street, while he hides at home drinking this good stuff!"

"I heard this is a gift he was preparing for a big shot in New York. He said it's extremely pure." A trusted aide next to him licked his lips greedily. "Boss, should we sell it? We can definitely get a good price for it."

"Sell my ass!"

Sean slapped his confidant on the forehead.

"These are the spoils! You understand? This is Fat Tony's gift to us!"

He casually unscrewed a bottle, and a grape aroma that was richer and sweeter than ordinary purple water instantly filled the air (it was the characteristic aromatic hydrocarbon smell of toluene, but it seemed particularly tempting under the cover of alcohol).

"We've won a resounding victory tonight! This 'special tribute' is definitely something we should drink to celebrate our triumph!"

"Call the brothers over! Let us try that good stuff that fatso is so reluctant to drink!"

"To Ireland!" Sean raised the bottle and roared at the night sky.

"Homage to Ireland!"

......

Newark, New Jersey, DEA field office.

At three in the morning, the office was still brightly lit.

Hank Schrader slammed a recent emergency room statistics report onto Steve Gomez's desk with such force that the coffee cup jumped.

"Remember that double-walled cup we found on the streets of Trenton last week?"

"That cup with the purple cough syrup?" Gomez rubbed his sleepy eyes. "What's wrong, boss? Didn't you say someone was mass-producing it?"

"It was just speculation at the time, but now it's true."

Hank sneered and pointed to the soaring red curve on the report.

"Look at this. In the past two weeks, emergency rooms in Newark and Elizabeth have received more than fifty teenagers, all with symptoms of respiratory depression and confusion. Their vomit was full of that damn purple liquid."

"This thing is spreading like a plague, Steve. But that's not the worst part."

Hank walked up to the gang faction map on the wall and slammed a red thumbtack into the location of Port Elizabeth.

"The eerie 'silence' I had been feeling earlier is over."

"The informant just reported that the Irish gang attacked the Di Nozzo family's warehouse tonight. For what? Not heroin, not cocaine, but this purple liquid."

"A war over cough syrup?" Gomez's eyes widened. "Are these guys crazy?"

"When profits are high enough, cough syrup is gold."

"The fact that two rival gangs would fight over it shows that the supply chain behind it has already taken shape. That 'pharmacist' who sold the potion as drugs had a much bigger appetite than we imagined."

"Let's go, Steve."

"Where to?"

"Go to the docks. There must have been some clues left there tonight. I have a feeling the person I'm looking for will be there."