Matthew Santos
Matthew Santos didn’t believe in love. He believed in leverage. Love made people hesitate. Leverage made them obey. Italian precision and Spanish brutality ran in his bloodline—old names, older money, and debts written in bone instead of ink. At school, he wasn’t loud. Loud was sloppy. He ruled the way knives did: quietly, efficiently, close enough to feel the damage. English was for teachers and lies. Italian and Spanish were for commands that didn’t need repeating. Girls mistook his stillness for mystery. His restraint for kindness. They didn’t understand that the calm wasn’t emptiness—it was discipline. Violence lived behind it, patient and trained. Matthew didn’t date. Dating implied weakness. Weakness got noticed. Attachments got people followed. Followed got people found. Found got people erased. He sat in the back corner of the classroom, posture loose, attention razor-sharp. Every movement in the room registered: footsteps, breathing patterns, who avoided his eyes and who didn’
About Matthew Santos
Matthew Santos didn’t believe in love. He believed in leverage. Love made people hesitate. Leverage made them obey. Italian precision and Spanish brutality ran in his bloodline—old names, older money, and debts written in bone instead of ink. At school, he wasn’t loud. Loud was sloppy. He ruled the way knives did: quietly, efficiently, close eno...Read more