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

A week later.

Corleone Pharmaceutical Factory, top-floor conference room of the administration building.

Victor stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, holding a small, pale blue pill in his hand.

Sunlight streamed through the gaps in the blinds, illuminating the "V" mark engraved on the surface of the pill.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Victor said softly.

Fat Tony, sitting on the sofa, impatiently shook his leg, causing the leather sofa to creak.

"Victor, stop admiring the artwork," Fat Tony flicked his cigarette ash onto the carpet. "Is this stuff even profitable? You shut down two entire purple ink production lines for this new tablet press. Do you know how much we missed out on this week?"

"Shortsighted."

Victor turned around and tossed the blue pill to Fat Tony.

Fat Tony caught it in a flurry of activity.

"What's this? Viagra?"

"Valium," Solti Victor replied from the side. The lawyer was wearing a flashy purple suit today.

"Valium?" Fat Tony frowned. "You mean that stuff housewives use to treat insomnia? Doesn't Roche have a monopoly on that?"

"Roche's patent will expire in less than six months."

"This means that at that time, any pharmaceutical company that has passed FDA certification will be able to legally produce its generic version."

"Tony, do you know how many people in the United States are eating this stuff? Thirty million. Anxious housewives, stressed Wall Street traders, college students who have just broken up with their boyfriends... it's a national comfort food."

"Purple water can only be sold to drug addicts on the street; that's making money off dead people."

"But this stuff!" Victor pointed to the blue pill. "This stuff is sold to living people. Sold to respectable people. Sold to those middle-class people who put on suits every morning and pretend they're living a happy life."

"Cost?" Fat Tony asked, hitting the nail on the head.

"Two cents each."

"Price?"

"Roche sells for $2. We sell for $1."

Fat Tony froze. He frantically calculated the multiplier in his mind.

"A 50-fold profit?" He swallowed hard. "And it's legal?"

"Completely legal." Saul pushed up his glasses. "No money laundering, no need to bribe the police, every penny can be deposited legitimately into a Swiss bank."

Fat Tony looked at the blue pill in his hand, and his eyes changed. It was no longer a pill, but a sapphire.

"Damn!" Fat Tony slapped his thigh. "Victor, from now on you're my dad! You say how many lines to cut, and you cut them!"

Just as the meeting room was filled with a cheerful atmosphere, the red internal telephone on the table suddenly rang.

Victor frowned. The front desk would only make this call in an emergency.

He picked up the receiver.

"Boss," the receptionist's voice trembled, and in the background came the sound of hurried footsteps, "a few people have barged in. They say they're government officials."

"DEA?" Victor asked calmly.

"No, they weren't police. They were wearing suits and carrying briefcases. The one in the lead said he was from the FDA."

Victor's pupils contracted.

FDA (Food and Drug Administration).

For a pharmaceutical company, these three letters are more terrifying than the FBI and CIA combined.

"Stop them for five minutes."

"But they already..."

Before the words were even finished, without any knocking, the conference room door was pushed open.

Three men in gray suits walked in. The one in the lead was about forty years old, with a receding hairline, wearing black-rimmed glasses, and carrying a slightly worn briefcase.

His gaze wasn't filled with the murderous intent of a policeman, but rather with an unsettling scrutiny. It was like that of a demanding auditor looking at a ledger riddled with errors.

Fat Tony instinctively reached for his lower back—where a revolver was tucked.

"Don't move."

Victor gave a low growl and pressed down on Fat Tony's shoulder.

"Stop your street smarts, Tony," Victor whispered in his ear. "This is a war of civilized men. If you draw your gun, you lose."

Fat Tony gritted his teeth and slowly put his hands back on his knees.

Victor straightened his cuffs, and a flawless business smile instantly appeared on his face. He stepped forward and extended his right hand.

"Welcome. I am Victor Corleone. May I ask who you are?"

The man in the lead did not shake hands.

He simply stared coldly at Victor, then pulled a black document holder from his pocket and unfolded it.

The badge on it gleamed coldly in the sunlight.

David Rossi

FDA Northeast Regional Compliance Investigation Team

"Mr. Corleone," Rossi's voice was dry and hoarse, devoid of any emotion, "I am David Rossi. Under Section 704 of the Federal Food, Drug, and Cosmetic Act, I have the authority to conduct a surprise inspection of your facility."

"Of course, of course," Victor said with a smile. "We've always been a law-abiding company. Are there any specific questions?"

"Someone has reported serious data falsification on your production line." Rossi pushed up his glasses, his gaze sweeping over Victor and across the others in the conference room. "Especially regarding the ratio of raw material consumption to finished product output."

Victor's heart skipped a beat.

This is the Achilles' heel.

To conceal the enormous sales volume of purple codeine on the black market, they manipulated the books extensively. For example, they diluted high-purity codeine or overstated the loss rate.

"A whistleblower?" Saul stood up, attempting to muddy the waters with his legal jargon. "Detective, anonymous malicious whistleblowing cannot be accepted..."

"It's not anonymous," Rossi interrupted him, pulling a piece of paper from her briefcase—it was Form 482 (Inspection Notice).

"This is a formal search warrant. From this moment forward, I do not wish for anyone to leave this building, nor do I wish for anyone to touch any documents."

Rossi turned around and gave orders to his two assistants behind him:

"Seal off the archives. I want all batch records, lab logs, and raw material weighing sheets from the past three years. Now."

"Yes, sir." The two assistants immediately walked towards the door.

The atmosphere froze at freezing point.

Once the archives are opened, those falsified records will be exposed to the light of day.

Cold sweat beaded on Fat Tony's forehead. He looked at Victor, his eyes filled with panic and murderous intent. His eyes seemed to ask: Should we kill them?

Victor remained in that position.

His brain was working at lightning speed.

Obstruction? That's obstructing justice; arrest on the spot.

Murder? That's suicide. The National Guard will surround this place tomorrow.

There is only one road.

drag.

"No problem, Agent," Victor suddenly spoke up. His voice was relaxed. "Cooperating with surveillance is our duty. The archives are downstairs."

Rossi glanced at him with some surprise. He had expected fierce resistance.

"However," Victor changed the subject, a hint of apology on his face, "unfortunately, the key to the archives is in the hands of our finance manager. And he..."

Victor glanced at his watch.

"He just went to the bank to deposit a check. He'll probably be back in about half an hour."

"What about the spare key?" Rossi asked coldly.

"That's a classified archive room, with only one key. It's for... you know, protection of trade secrets." Victor shrugged, looking sincere.

Rossi stared into Victor's eyes. For a full ten seconds.

He was trying to determine whether the young man was lying or was genuinely that unlucky.

Victor's eyes were clear, open, and even slightly ingratiating.

"Half an hour." Rossi glanced at his watch. "If I don't see the key in half an hour, I'll have the bailiffs break down the door. At that point, the situation will change."

"Of course. I'll call him right now and urge him to come back."

Victor turned to the side and made a "please" gesture.

"Since we're going to wait anyway, how about we have a cup of coffee? This is freshly ground Blue Mountain, it tastes pretty good."

Rossi hesitated for a moment, glancing at the heavy snow outside the meeting room and then at the steaming coffee pot.

"Wait here." Rossi sat down at the other end of the conference table, facing Victor across from her.

Victor poured himself a cup of coffee and brought it to Rossi.

The instant he put down the cup, he turned around, his back to Rossi, and looked at Saul.

His eyes changed instantly.

That clarity and openness disappeared, replaced by coldness.

He mouthed a word.

all (all).

Thor paused for a moment, then understood. His Adam's apple bobbed, and he nodded slightly.

Victor turned around and put on a smile again.

"Mr. Rossi, it's freezing cold here, isn't it? I heard you were just transferred from Washington?"

Rossi didn't respond to that.

"Twenty-five minutes left." He raised his wrist to check his watch. "Mr. Corleone, my patience is running out."

"Of course," Victor nodded with a smile.

Time ticked by. The air in the conference room was stifling. Fat Tony sat in the corner, his eyes darting back and forth between Rossi and Victor.

Finally, heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor. Not one person, but a group of people.

Clang.

The conference room door was kicked open.

Saul walked in, panting, carrying a brass key. Behind him followed six or seven porters, each carrying two huge cardboard boxes.

"Found it!" Saul wiped the sweat from his brow. "Sorry, Agent Rossi. Our treasurer just got back."

"What's this?" Rossi asked, pointing to the pile of cardboard boxes, her brow furrowed.

"Here are the documents you requested," Saul explained innocently. "All batch records from the past three years, raw material purchase orders, lab logs, and... oh, there might be some cafeteria purchase invoices and cleaning staff attendance sheets mixed in. You know, we're a small factory, and we haven't had time to digitize our records yet."

"Bang!"

The last box slammed heavily onto the floor, kicking up a cloud of dust. Rossi covered her nose and waved her hand.

"You're doing this on purpose," Rossi's voice turned cold. "Are you trying to buy time with this kind of trick?"

"How could that be?" Victor stepped forward, casually opened a box, and took out a stack of yellowed papers. "We were just cooperating with your work without reservation. Look, this is the raw material receipt from 1979. Oh, sorry, this is the toilet paper purchase order."

He casually tossed the paper back into the box, apologetic. "It does look a bit messy. But if you need it, we can provide you with an office so you can take your time looking through it. It should take about two or three months, right?"

Rossi stared at the mountain of cardboard boxes, his face turning ashen.

He's a professional investigator; he saw right through the trick. This is classic "malicious compliance." They gave you everything you wanted, but hid the truth in tons of junk information.

The snow outside the window was falling heavier and heavier, and the sky had completely darkened.

"It's 4:30 PM, Agent Rossi," Victor said at the opportune moment, his tone tinged with concern. "It's Friday. If you start investigating now, you'll probably have to spend the weekend here. Our factory's heating system isn't very good; it gets quite cold at night."

Rossi gritted her teeth, her cheeks bulging a few times.

He wanted to get angry, but he had no reason to. The other party did provide the documents.

"Monday." Rossi took a deep breath, suppressing his anger. "Monday morning at eight o'clock. I'll bring my team. If it's this trash, don't blame me for being ruthless."

"You're welcome anytime." Victor smiled and extended his hand. "Would you like me to send you to your hotel? The hotels around here are all in very poor condition."

"No need," Rossi refused curtly. "I have a car."

He picked up his briefcase and gave Victor one last, deep look. His eyes were filled with warning: Don't think you've won; this is just the beginning.

"Seal these boxes. If I find that even a single piece of paper has been tampered with..."

"I guarantee with the honor of the Corleone family that they will remain here intact."

Rossi snorted, turned, and strode out of the conference room. His two assistants quickly followed, instinctively avoiding his gaze as they passed Victor.

The tense atmosphere in the conference room only eased instantly when Rossi's headlights disappeared into the snow.

"Phew!" Saul plopped down in a chair, loosening his tie. "Good heavens, his eyes were terrifying. I thought he was going to arrest us on the spot."

“He can’t do it.” Victor walked to the window, watching the Ford sedan drive away below. “He has no evidence, only suspicion. And suspicion is worthless in court.”

"But he's in the FDA," Fat Tony said with some concern. "He'll be back on Monday. What will we do then? These ledgers can't withstand scrutiny."

"He's not coming back."

Victor turned around, a smile on his face.

"Did that private investigator Mike send you a message just now?"

"It's out." Saul pulled a pager out of his pocket and looked at it. "Rosie doesn't have a place to stay in New Jersey, so he booked a room at Caesars Palace Hotel in Atlantic City. Looks like he's planning to spend the weekend there."

"Caesars Palace..." Victor repeated the name softly, "A meticulous, rigid FDA agent with a mountain of debt, going to Atlantic City alone on a Friday night. What a dangerous combination."

"Boss, what do you want?"

"Give him a call." Victor looked at Saul. "Not to Rossi, but to 'The Professor'."

"Professor?" Thor paused for a moment, then realized, "You mean Elena? That female con artist who specializes in high-end scams?"

"Tell her the prey has entered the arena." Victor walked to the table, picked up the blue tranquilizer, flicked it gently into the air, and then caught it.

"Since Mr. Rossi likes to check accounts, then let him check as much as he wants. However, not our accounts, but his own life's accounts."