THE penthouse was small but cozy and affluent, tucked away in a quiet neighborhood in San Diego. The scent of aged wood mixed with the faint aroma of burning wax from a different candles flickering from different positions in the living room. Carlson sat on a cushioned chair, staring at the glass of wine in his hand, swirling it absentmindedly.

Across from him, Stanley Jacobi, his father, leaned against the doorframe, his own wine glass in hand. The man had aged, his once sharp features softened by time, but his eyes, those dark, unreadable eyes, still held a certain intensity.

"So, you finally decided to see your old man," Stanley...