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

One month later. Water Pharmaceutical Factory, administrative office area.

Victor Corleone sat in a high-backed chair, toying with a pen in his hand.

Frank Gallagher was sitting opposite him.

The union leader was casually propping his muddy work boots up on Victor's desk. He held a bottle of Louis XIII, taken from Victor's liquor cabinet, and took a swig straight from the bottle.

"Good wine." Frank let out a loud burp, his cloudy eyes gleaming with greed. "Much better than the horse piss I drank at the docks."

Victor didn't speak, he just watched him quietly.

It's like looking at a corpse.

"Don't look at me like that, Mr. Corleone." Frank pulled a crumpled black notebook from his pocket—one he'd stolen from the shipping warehouse. "Let's talk business. The shipment volumes of some 'chemical raw materials' recorded in this seem to be more than what you declared to the tax authorities… um, about ten times?"

He turned to a page and pointed to a line of data with his yellowed finger.

"Furthermore, all the recipients are non-existent shell companies. What if I accidentally leave this notebook on a DEA agent's desk..."

Frank grinned, revealing a mouthful of rotten teeth.

"I imagine this beautiful office will soon be sealed off."

Victor put down his pen.

"What do you want, Frank?"

"Great!" Frank slammed the bottle down on the table. "I want 30% of Water Pharmaceuticals. And I want cash for every month's profit sharing. You know I don't like paying taxes."

Victor sighed.

He opened the drawer, took out an envelope, and pushed it in front of Frank.

"Here's $50,000 in cash. Take it, resign as union president, leave New Jersey, and go sunbathe in Florida. That's enough for you to drink for ten years."

Frank paused for a moment, then burst into wild laughter.

"Fifty thousand? You think you can fob me off like that?" He grabbed the envelope and slammed it across Victor's face. "I want a gold mine! Not breadcrumbs! 30% of the shares. One percent less, and I'll rot in jail!"

Banknotes were scattered all over the ground.

Victor's expression remained unchanged. He bent down and picked up the money from the ground one bill at a time, his movements elegant and composed.

"That's all the value you have, Frank."

Victor said softly, his tone devoid of anger, but filled with a chilling regret.

"Unfortunately, you chose a different path."

"What?" Frank didn't hear clearly.

"Get out." Victor sat up straight again, pointed to the door, and said, "Until I change my mind."

Frank sneered, grabbed the notebook, and stuffed it back into his pocket.

"You'll regret this, kid. Tomorrow morning, you'll be begging me on your knees."

Frank staggered out of the office, deliberately bumping into the doorframe before leaving.

A deathly silence returned to the room.

Victor picked up the phone on the table and dialed a number.

"it's me."

Saul Goodman's energetic voice came through the phone: "Hey boss! I heard that alcoholic came looking for you? Should I send him a strongly worded cease and desist letter?"

"No lawyer's letter needed." Victor looked out the window at the gloomy sky. "Jimmy, I'd like to ask you a legal question."

"Please speak, my consultation fee is calculated by the minute."

"If a severely intoxicated person drives home late at night and their vehicle breaks down and plunges into the Delaware River... will the insurance company cover it?"

There was a two-second silence on the other end of the phone.

The background noise disappeared. Saul had obviously closed the door or covered the microphone.

"That depends on the nature of the 'malfunction'," Saul's voice became deep and professional. "If it's brake failure and there's no proof of sabotage, then it's an accident. Full compensation."

"Brake failure..." Victor repeated the word. "If there's a pinhole-sized puncture in the brake line, which doesn't leak at low speeds due to low oil pressure, but suddenly ruptures under the high pressure of emergency braking... can a forensic doctor detect this kind of malfunction?"

"It's difficult," Saul quickly replied. "Especially if it's an older Chevrolet, where worn-out rubber hoses are common. Plus, if the vehicle falls into the river, the water flow and impact will cover up many traces. As long as the driver's blood alcohol content is high enough, it's a perfect drunk driving accident."

"Understood."

Victor hung up the phone.

He stood up, walked to the French windows, and watched Frank's dilapidated pickup truck wobble as it drove out of the factory gate.

"Have a safe trip, Frank."

……

Late at night, on Highway 9 in New Jersey, near the Passeig River Bridge.

Heavy rain.

Frank, his eyes glazed with drunkenness, gripped the steering wheel, and the Chevrolet pickup swayed wildly in the rain like a mad dog. Deafening heavy metal blared from the radio, and a half-empty bottle of whiskey sat on the passenger seat.

"Damn rich people... Tomorrow... Tomorrow I'll make you all go down..."

He mumbled curses incoherently, pressing the accelerator harder and harder.

A sharp turn sign suddenly appeared ahead.

Frank was jolted awake and instinctively slammed on the brakes.

"Bang!"

A muffled cracking sound came from the chassis.

That was the sound of the brake line bursting under high pressure. The brake pedal instantly lost all resistance and was pressed all the way down.

There was no slowdown.

The pickup truck, like a cannonball, crashed through the roadside guardrail with tremendous momentum.

The moment the feeling of weightlessness washed over him, Frank's pupils contracted sharply. He saw the churning black river below—the entrance to hell.

"No!"

……

One week later. St. Mary's Cemetery.

A light rain was falling from the sky, just like on the day of my father's funeral.

Victor, dressed in a black trench coat, stood before the freshly filled grave. He held a bouquet of white lilies in his hand, his expression solemn and sorrowful.

"Frank was a good man. Although he had some bad habits, he dedicated his life to the union."

Victor gently placed the bouquet in front of the tombstone and spoke to the several union members around him who were sobbing uncontrollably.

"Wat Pharmaceuticals will set up a fund to support his family. That's the only thing we can do."

The union members shook Victor's hand, tears of gratitude streaming down their faces.

After the crowd dispersed, Victor opened a black umbrella and prepared to leave.

"Well done, Mr. Corleone."

A rough voice came from behind.

Victor stopped and slowly turned around.

Hank Schrader leaned against an unassuming Ford sedan, a half-eaten donut in his hand. Rain lashed his bald head, trickling down his cheeks and into his collar, but he paid no heed.

"Agent Schrader," Victor nodded slightly, "You've come to mourn Frank too?"

"Mourning? No." Hank swallowed the donut in two bites, dusting the frosting off his hands. "I'm waiting for someone to slip up. Brake failure? Drunk driving? For a twenty-year-old drunkard, that's a bit too much of a coincidence, isn't it?"

Hank walked up to Victor, the two less than half a meter apart. Victor could smell the coffee on Hank and the dangerous aura of a hunting dog.

"I know you did it." Hank stared into Victor's eyes. "Even though those idiots in the forensics department say it was an accident, I know it wasn't."

Victor looked at Hank and suddenly smiled.

It wasn't the embarrassment of being exposed, nor was it a provocative sneer.

It was an elegant, flawless smile.

“Agent Schrader, what are you talking about? I’m just a legitimate pharmaceutical manufacturer.” Victor straightened his wind-blown collar. “In this country, innocence is presumed. If you have evidence, put these handcuffs on me. If not…”

Victor leaned closer to Hank and whispered:

"Then please don't stop me from mourning an 'old friend'."