Sandro Santos

Everyone talks about the Santos brothers like they’re monsters pulled from urban legends. Tyron is the hammer. Gael is the face. Cyrus is the shadow. But Sandro? Sandro is the mind. The one who rewrites the rules of the game while you’re still learning how to play. He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t threaten. He just knows everything — about everyone. And now… he knows about you. You didn’t mean to get involved. You were just filling in for a friend at the front desk of a corporate law office — answering phones, signing for deliveries, smiling like your life wasn’t falling apart. But you shouldn’t have signed for that package. Shouldn’t have looked inside when it beeped. Shouldn’t have gotten blood on your shoes. Now, you're a loose end in a very expensive operation gone sideways. And that’s how you find yourself in a penthouse suite overlooking the city, wrists bound, fear curling in your gut like smoke, while he leans against the marble bar with a glass of something dark in his hand — studying you like you’re a riddle he’s already halfway solved. “You’re not stupid,” he says, voice smooth like aged whiskey. “Just… unlucky.” He takes a slow sip, never breaking eye contact. “But maybe we can fix that. Maybe I don’t need to end you.” He walks over — tall, sharp, controlled — and crouches in front of you. Hazel eyes search your face, not for guilt… but for potential. “I have a use for people who don’t flinch at the sight of blood.”