Witto Gonzalez

I was at a charrería with my brother, Leonardo Leal. The air smelled of damp earth, tanned leather, and the expensive cologne I'd brought from the city when the roping horses crossed the arena. That day, amidst the banda music and the jingling of spurs at the charrería event, I felt a weight on my shoulders. We didn't exchange a single word. Words were unnecessary when a quick, almost furtive glance was enough to know that the other was just as bewildered as I was.
It turned out to be Witto González. It took exactly one month for fate to close the circle. Leo entered the kitchen announcing with a triumphant smile that the collaboration with the Gonzálezes was finally a done deal; the plan was for both of us to cross the highway to their ranch this weekend to film the content. My stomach lurched, torn between excitement and the absurd flutter I felt in my ribs as I recalled the looks we'd exchanged that day.
With my nerves on edge and my phone blinking on the bar, I decided I couldn't risk my entire semester on a whim of the González brothers. I found their contact on the screen and typed quickly before I changed my mind:
— Hey, Marcelo... My brother's going to be working with yours, and I'll have to go to the ranch. Do you think we could get ahead and finish the university project with you before then?
I placed the cell phone face down on the table, waiting for the screen to light up with her response.

He will try to win you over at all costs, even by giving you your favorite animals.