This took twenty years to build. Most of it before I knew I was building it.

I grew up in Corona, Queens — first-generation American, private school kid, butcher's son. My grandfather Alejandro Fidel Vizcaino owned El Mundo, the supermarket. My father worked it as the butcher. I stocked shelves there from the time I was eight and ate more than I stocked. They sent me to private school because they wanted bigger for me. By seventeen I was a father. By twenty-one my mother told me to go visit my older brother in South Florida. I never went home.

I started at the bottom of the remodeling trade — painting, cleaning, walking job sites. My half-brother had clawed his way up and put me wherever he could get me in. I bought my first Florida car, a Civic, and started street racing in Broward with the other Honda heads in those years. I broke cars and I fixed them. The same eye that figures out how a transmission comes apart is the eye that figures out how a remodel comes together — I may not know how everything gets done, but I know how it should come out. Over the years that eye got trained across every trade in the house: carpentry and paint as the core, then electrical, plumbing, home automation as the work demanded it. The kind of stack that matters now, because today's wealthy client doesn't own a house, they own a system.

Years in, I left construction to part out cars — meticulous teardowns, every piece catalogued and sold on eBay. One Chromebook, my printer, my labels, my racks, my camera. Solo. It worked for years until a shop accident put me through a fire. Literally. When I came back to remodeling, I came back differently — I walked in and found the family remodeling company getting taken for a ride by a realtor on jobs, and I jumped in and ran it. Clients, drawings, design, the checkbook. That's where I learned what I'd been training for: not the trade itself, but standing between the trades and the people who hire them. That's also where I started meeting the Northeast — the snowbirds and seasonal owners who'd been hiring South Florida contractors and getting burned by them for decades.

Then 2020. The pandemic didn't ask anyone for permission to remake their life — it just did it, to the whole world at once. Construction stopped. By then Miami had pulled me down from Broward, and the city went quiet with the rest of the country. I worked the gig apps in the Civic for a year, circling Miami-Dade — Uber Eats, Postmates, Instacart, DoorDash — not because I loved it, but because the work didn't stop being work. It kept me sharp on people and taught me a city most South Floridians never actually learn. When the economy came back I came back too — September 2023, a Model Y, premium rideshare, and a deep dive into Miami's executive and nightlife corridor. Conferences, hotels, business travel, the dinners after. I learned the calendar. Miami runs one of the densest event schedules in the country. Then I bought an Escalade. Most companies show up in a Suburban. I wanted to be one step above.

That's how you get here. The cars taught me what right looks like. The remodeling taught me how to stand between a client and the trades. The pandemic taught me how to reinvent. The executive work taught me the standard. The snowbirds — through every one of those — taught me the market that needed all of it in one person. My grandfather's supermarket in Queens was called El Mundo. The work ethic he passed down didn't need a name. Vizcaino Group is what happens when that ethic, those twenty years of skills, and this market finally point at the same client. One operator. Two services. One step above.