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

Late autumn has arrived.

The maple leaves in New Jersey were as red as blood, layer upon layer, carpeting the driveway of Corleone Estate.

The estate has just completed its third phase of expansion, designed by the firm of renowned architect I.M. Pei. Now, it not only boasts a main building modeled after the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, but also includes an 18-hole private golf course, two helipads equipped with nighttime navigation lights, and a separate banquet hall that can accommodate 500 people.

Tonight, this place is brightly lit, as bright as day.

Victor Corleone's 27th birthday party is underway.

The parking lot was filled with stretched Lincolns, bulletproof Rolls-Royces, and even several black Cadillacs with diplomatic license plates starting with "DC".

Inside the banquet hall, the light reflected from the crystal chandelier illuminated every carefully crafted smile.

"Boss, this just arrived."

Saul Goodman, dressed in a silver suit, moved through the crowd like a slippery eel. He held a freshly printed telegram in his hand and wore an excited smile.

"A congratulatory message from the Vice President's office. Mr. Bush praised Vought Pharmaceuticals' outstanding contributions to the field of pain management and looks forward to our greater role in the Painless America initiative."

Victor took the telegram, his fingers gently tracing the gold-embossed White House emblem on it.

"A congratulatory telegram secured us a $500,000 donation to the Republican National Committee (RNC)." Vic casually handed the telegram to the waiter carrying a silver tray. "Keep it. Tell the public relations department to make 500 copies of this tomorrow and send them to every distributor and hospital director who's hesitant to place an order. This is more effective than any sales pitch."

"No problem." Saul snapped his fingers. "By the way, the new FDA commissioner is over there, discussing 'optimizing the drug approval process' with our chief scientific officer. I think you should go and say hello."

Victor looked in the direction Saul was pointing. The director was holding a glass of whiskey, his smile somewhat reserved.

"I won't go," Victor straightened his cuffs. "Keep a distance, make him feel that we're not just his clients, but some kind of irresistible force. You handle him, Saul. Remember, don't talk about money directly, talk about 'the advisory board seat' and 'the post-retirement academic fund'."

"I understand, that's my area of ​​expertise." Saul blinked, turned and disappeared into the Vanity Fair, where he began handing out his business cards with gold lettering.

Victor, holding a glass of champagne he hadn't yet tasted, made his way through the bustling crowd back to the second-floor terrace.

It was much quieter here. The chilly autumn wind on his face made him more alert.

From this vantage point, he could overlook the entire banquet hall and the lawn below.

On the lawn, Katie Grant, wearing a backless red evening gown, was surrounded by a group of Wall Street investment bankers and senators.

"Wat Pharmaceuticals' price-to-earnings ratio is undervalued," Katie's voice floated up on the wind. "Our growth model isn't based on population growth, but on the prevalence of 'pain.' Ladies and gentlemen, as long as humans have a nervous system, our stock price will keep rising."

A knowing laugh erupted from the crowd.

Just then, a light and hesitant footstep sound came from behind.

"Hey, brother."

Victor turned around. It was Anne.

She wore a simple white cotton dress, no jewelry, and her hair was casually tied back. Among the group of jeweled ladies and well-dressed elites, she stood out as an outsider.

She came back from university on special occasion.

"Are you alright, Annie?" Victor's hard facial features softened, revealing the first genuine smile of the night, and he opened his arms to hug her.

Anne gave him a light hug, but her body stiffened slightly. A few seconds later, she released him, took a half-step back, and created some distance.

“I saw the news.” Anne looked down at the marble floor of the terrace. “It’s about the settlement in that New Jersey case. And… the Washington Post’s in-depth report on soaring addiction rates. They said OxyContin is creating a generation of ‘zombies’.”

Victor's smile froze for a second: "That's business competition, Anne. And it's a statistical misrepresentation. The media always likes to use sensational terms like 'zombie' to sell newspapers. Our drugs have helped millions of late-stage cancer patients and chronic pain sufferers—that's the truth shown by big data."

"Is the truth something that was covered up with money?" Annie suddenly looked up, her clear eyes staring directly at Victor. "Like when you helped me fix the neighbor's broken window when we were kids?"

Victor fell silent.

"Annie, the rules of this world are far more complex than you learned in the ivory tower of university." Victor walked to the railing, pointing to the crowd below. "See those people? Senators, judges, bankers. They make the rules, and I've simply done my best within those frameworks. If I didn't, someone else would. That's the market."

"I don't understand the market, I only know what conscience is."

Anne took a simple little box out of her canvas bag and placed it on the railing.

"Happy birthday, brother. I bought this with the money I earned working at the library. It's a fountain pen. It wasn't expensive, but I hope... I hope you can use it to sign some proper documents."

After saying that, she turned and left, her steps hurried.

"Annie, you can stay the night. Your room is always available and cleaned every day," Victor called out from behind him, his voice tinged with a hint of pleading.

"No. I have an early class tomorrow." Annie didn't turn around; her slender figure disappeared into the shadows around the corner of the stairs.

Victor stood there, motionless for a long time.

He picked up the small box and opened it. Inside was a basic Parker fountain pen, worth about fifty dollars.

He looked down at his Patek Philippe Ref. 3970 million-year calendar chronograph on his wrist, worth two hundred thousand US dollars.

But suddenly he felt that the watch on his wrist was so heavy that it was hard to breathe, and the pen was incredibly hot.

The band downstairs started playing jazz, and laughter, clinking glasses, and compliments blended into a noisy sea, completely drowning out the silence on the second floor.

……

Two o'clock in the morning.

The guests had all left. The noise subsided, leaving only confetti, empty champagne bottles, and a sense of emptiness after the revelry. The servants silently cleaned up the mess.

Victor sat alone in the wooden study.

The firelight flickered in the fireplace, and a huge world map hung on the wall, densely covered with small red flags.

Each flag represents not just a geographical coordinate, but a market that has been conquered.

Red represents Waters Pharmaceuticals' distribution centers, blue represents state legislatures that have been successfully lobbied, and green represents regions that have been included in the health insurance system.

He cut open a cigar, lit a long match, and patiently heated the tobacco stem until it was evenly heated and released a rich aroma.

In the past, he always told himself: I do all this to survive, to prevent the Corleone family from being bullied, and to allow Anne to study art or literature in a carefree environment.

But now?

The survival crisis has long been resolved.

Family? Anne didn't even want to stay in this house for another minute.

"So what is it all for?"

Victor exhaled a puff of smoke, watching it swirl and dissipate in the air.

He stood up, walked to the French windows, and looked at his reflection in the glass—young, wealthy, and powerful, but also incredibly lonely.

He suddenly remembered a line from a TV series he had watched before, a monologue by a chemistry teacher.

"I do these things because I'm good at them. Because I enjoy them. Because they make me feel truly alive."

Yes.

He liked this feeling.

He loved watching the sales curves on the reports soar like rockets; he loved seeing politicians who were usually high and mighty bowing and scraping before him, just to beg for a campaign donation; he loved the God's-eye view of manipulating everything behind the scenes and having the entire healthcare system at his fingertips.

Water is more than just a company. It's a scepter. It's the key to the Roman temple.

He was no longer the Victor who used to tremble when he spoke to gangsters.

Capital has no emotions. It only has the instinct to multiply. Like a virus, it must constantly seek hosts and expand. And Victor is the perfect embodiment of this instinct, the executor of the will of capital.

"Knock knock knock".

A rapid knocking interrupted his thoughts.

The secretary pushed open the door, looking somewhat flustered, and even forgot to knock three times first: "Boss, I'm sorry to bother you. But there's a top-priority official letter that the legal department just received, and I think you need to take a look at it now."

"Who sent it?" Victor frowned.

"A Japanese conglomerate. It's called Sakura Pharma." The secretary handed over a thick document with a cherry blossom emblem on the cover. "It's a giant listed on the Tokyo Stock Exchange, backed by the Mitsubishi conglomerate."

Victor took the document and quickly flipped through it.

This is not an ordinary business letter, but a carefully crafted Letter of Intent for Acquisition and Due Diligence Report.

"They just completed the full acquisition of our main raw material supplier in California—Pacific Bioalkaloids." The secretary swallowed, her voice trembling slightly. "That means they now control 70% of our thebaine supply. That's the core ingredient for producing OxyContin."

“It’s not just about controlling the raw materials.” Victor pointed to a line in the document. “Look here. They offered to acquire Water Pharmaceuticals outright at a 40% premium. This isn’t just about money; it’s humiliation.”

1987. The peak of Japan's bubble economy.

The total land value of Tokyo could theoretically buy the entire United States. Wielding what seemed like an unlimited checkbook, Japanese conglomerates landed on the American continent like Godzilla. They bought Rockefeller Center, Columbia Pictures, and Pebble Beach Golf Links.

Now, a monster called "Yen" has opened its bloody maw, wanting to swallow America's pharmaceutical industry.

Victor closed the file and walked to the map.

His gaze crossed the Pacific Ocean and landed on that long, narrow island nation.

That feeling of loneliness at the top vanished instantly.

Instead, there's the thrill of an adrenaline rush, the excitement of bloodlust. That's the look in a hunter's eyes when he sees prey stronger than himself.

That was the meaning of his life. Not to preserve the status quo, but for war.

"As for the Japanese telling them, 'I'm not selling! Want Vought Pharmaceuticals? Let them come and get it themselves with their samurai swords!'"

……

The author mentioned that this chapter contains an explanation of Victor's situation, which you can take a look at, but it's too long to include here.