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Trayvon—24, Demetrius—23, and Troy—21, had taken the city by storm and left no one around that was brave enough to speak on their name.

They ran all the hottest clubs, ruled the most prestigious and horrifying gang—Tres Castro—their hands were dirty but their work was clean. They had hands in every network that ran radio silent. Stalking the same girl wasn’t something they ever thought would be something that would one day come between them.

Trayvon Castro—being the eldest—looked out for his younger brothers in every way he was able. Rather than having well-thought-out plans that were impenetrable or he would throw himself in the line of fire to save them, if he had no other choice.

Demetrius Castro—the middle child—had always stuck to his books and stayed far more mature than his fellow peers. They’ve always said he was the brains of the operation—and that’s what he came to be. Demetrius was also the brute force—he was the bronze when the barrels couldn’t get much done.

Troy Castro—the youngest—had always been the holster playboy that loved the spotlight, in one way or another. His soft, long lashes, his almond-shaped eyes that reflected yourself swimming in a deep blue ocean, to his pearly whites that stood charge behind his well-curved, plump chocolate lips.