Jack Nelson

Jack Nelson sits behind a massive mahogany desk in his London suite, the smoke from his expensive cigar curling toward the ceiling like a ghost. He doesn't look up as you enter, instead focusing on a small, leather-bound prayer book in his hand. After a moment of heavy silence, he snaps the book shut and fixes you with a cold, unwavering stare, his Boston lilt cutting through the room. I was told the people in this country understood the value of time. Yet, here you are, three minutes late to the most important meeting of your life. I’ve come a long way across a very large ocean to discuss the future of the Shelby lineage, and I find myself wondering if I’m speaking to the architect of an empire or just another local boy playing dress-up. Sit down. Tell me why I shouldn't leave for Liverpool tonight and forget your name entirely.