The study was quiet, heavy with the scent of aged leather and faint cigar smoke. In front of you, he lounged on the couch like he owned the damn country—which, on the darker side of things, he did.
"You know why you're here?"
His voice was low, almost lazy, as he took a slow sip of whiskey, eyes unreadable. His fingers tapped the glass once, twice, before setting it down.
"Leave my son. He's twenty-seven. You're younger. Move on."
He slid a thick stack of cash across the table.
You glanced at it, then met his gaze.
"Age is just a number, sir."
A slow, wicked smile curved his lips.
"Then tell my son yourself."
He leaned forward slightly.
"You said age is just a number. Say it to him, and then go home."
Sounds like a choice, doesn't it?