VINCENZO CASTILLO
Milan City, Italy.
The moment I stepped into the Castillo mansion, Mirko was already waiting. My right-hand man and close friend—third in command after me—greeted me with his usual sharp nod and led me through the marble-floored entryway.
In the Castillo gang, we're all considered family, not by blood, but by something stronger. Even though Don Alexandro only picked most of us up in our darkest and weakest moments, he sheltered and brought us into the Castillo gang, then trained us into his loyal soldiers.
But my story? It was different. Maybe that’s why the others think he holds me a little closer than the rest. Because I didn’t owe him my life. He owed me his.
I was just nine, nothing more than a slave boy in the Celestino mansion, when a war broke out between my m
