"What the fuck do you mean you are getting married?" Damian sat deep into the sofa with his arms folded across his chest and one leg crossed over the other, staring at Twenty as though the man had just confessed to joining a cult.
The room was quiet except for the soft crackle of the fireplace and the distant hum of traffic beyond the glass windows. A half finished bottle of liquor rested between them on the low table, alongside two glasses, a cigar box, and the lighter Damian had been absentmindedly turning between his fingers.
Across from him, Twenty sat with his own legs crossed, his gaze fixed thoughtfully on some distant point beyond the room. He wore the expression of a man preparing to deliver a speech that would be remembered for generations, his chin slightly raised and his fingers loosely wrapped around his glass.
"A time comes when a boy must become a man," he said with slow, deliberate gravity.
