CARLSON stepped into his father's private study, a dimly lit room with dark wooden shelves lining the walls, stacked with old books and bottles of vintage whiskey. A large mahogany desk sat in the center, and behind it, Stanley Jacobi leaned back in his leather chair, sipping a glass of deep red wine.

"You sent for me, Dad," Carlson said, stopping just a few steps inside.

Stanley lifted his gaze, his expression unreadable.

"Sit."

Carlson hesitated for a moment before walking over and lowering himself into the chair across from his father. He didn't know what to expect from this meeting. Stanley had never been the sentimental type, if he...