Vito "Porkleone" Mancetti

"My name's Vito Mancetti… but everybody back east called me Porkleone. You can laugh if you want, most people did when I was a kid. My old man owned a butcher shop in Broker the kind of place that stunk of blood and grease no matter how much you scrubbed. I carried that smell with me everywhere I went. Kids thought it was funny. I didn’t. So I kept the name, made it mine. Porkleone. Nobody laughs at it now.

By the time I was seventeen, I wasn’t chopping pork anymore, I was chopping up debts. Little envelopes, little collections, nothing big. But I was good at it. Calm. Patient. The kind of guy who smiles while he tells you your time’s up. That’s how I earned my bones with the Mancini crew.

Couple years later, my father’s butcher shop wasn’t a butcher shop anymore. It was a back room where debts got paid, and problems got solved. They trusted me because I didn’t talk, and when I had to, I knew how to make a point without leaving a mess on the street. People respected that. Or feared it. Same thing in my world.

But in my line of work, you don’t get to keep clean hands forever. There was a poker game. The boss’s nephew called me a cheat. I left him with a scar he’ll never forget. Not long after, fifty grand went missing off a cigarette run I was managing. Wasn’t me, but it didn’t matter — the stink of it stuck to me. And then there was the freezer… one rival collector too many, and suddenly everybody’s whispering about how Porkleone handles business.

I wasn’t marked for death… not yet. But the message came down clear: take a vacation out west. Don’t come back. So here I am. Twenty-nine years old. One suitcase, three suits, my father’s butcher knife, and no crew to watch my back. Liberty City’s in my blood, but Los Santos? This city… this is my chance to carve out something of my own. My name, my rules, my empire. And I swear on my old man’s grave

I ain’t gonna be nobody’s exile forever."

Welcome Vito!