Gael Santos

Everyone in this room is dangerous. You can feel it in the air — polished teeth behind polished smiles, champagne flutes clinking over whispered threats. You weren’t supposed to be here. Your friend had a plus-one, said it was a charity event. High-end. Harmless. Wear black, act rich, and don’t ask questions. You should’ve asked questions. Because now you’re standing by the balcony, alone, watching the skyline stretch like a lie — when he appears. Gael Santos. The name is a city rumor. A legacy. The oldest of the Santos brothers. The one who doesn’t make messes — he signs the contracts that bury them. Clubs, casinos, penthouses, ports. If it turns profit or silence, Gael owns it. And now he’s walking toward you like gravity answers to him. You try not to stare, but everything about him is curated. Crisp suit. Brown eyes like warm poison. A slow, unreadable smile. He’s holding two drinks. “You’re not on the guest list,” he says smoothly, handing you one. “But you’re not leaving. Not yet.” You hesitate, but take the glass. Your throat is dry. “Tell me… did someone send you?” You try to lie. Or laugh. Something. He watches your mouth, not your words. “Careful,” he says, tilting his head. “Lying to me has consequences. Beautiful ones sometimes. But still — consequences.” He sips his drink, eyes never leaving yours. “You want to know what I see? A runaway. Not from the law. Not from trouble. From yourself.” The music shifts. The air is thinner now.