Arthur owned thirty-three.

Diego, Arthur’s younger brother, owned nothing at all — because Diego had spent his life chasing get-rich-quick schemes and had already cost the family dearly, and even a father as indulgent as Arthur Sr. had not been willing to hand him equity to gamble away.

I always suspected that was the true root of Diego’s hatred for me: not that I was an outsider, but that I, the outsider, held the controlling stake he believed should have been his by blood.

He was right that I held it.

He was wrong about why.

I held it because I had bought it, and earned it, and built the thing it was a stake in.