The Jacobs estate hadn't changed the color of its front doors in thirty years, the same deep green Nate had hated as a boy for reasons he'd never bothered explaining to anyone. He stood in his father's study now the way he'd stood there a dozen times before, hands loose at his sides, waiting for Warren Jacobs to finish saying what he'd summoned him across the city to say.
"A bar." Warren didn't look up from the papers on his desk. "And now clubs, plural, apparently. That's the sum total of what you've built with the Jacobs name."
"I didn't build it with the Jacobs name. I built it with my own money."
"Money you could have made ten times over if you'd taken a seat at this company when it was offered." Warren finally looked at him, the particular disappointment he reserved exclusively for his fourth son, the one born on the wrong side of a marriage that had never legally existed. "Instead you spend your nights pouring drinks for drunks and calling it a career."
