Stone Cates arrived in Port Charles in August of 1993, around the same time Sonny Corinthos did. Sonny had taken Stone off the streets, given him a job, and a place to live. He also gave him the name of Stone, for "rolling stone."
Stone was grateful to Sonny for all of the things he had done for him. In fact, Stone believed that Sonny “saved his life.” This is exactly how Sonny described what Joe Scully had done for him. However, Sonny didn’t involve Stone in “the business.” He never wanted him to turn out like himself, where he couldn’t get out "of the life.”
Sonny treated Stone like a brother and when Jagger Cates found his long lost brother, Stone's loyalty was still to Sonny. Jagger, and even Robin at the beginning, couldn’t understand why Stone would stay with someone like Sonny. He was bad news and they wanted Stone to have a better life. They constantly told him to stay away from Sonny.
What they didn’t know was that Sonny took good care of Stone. He gave him the family that Stone never had. He would do anything for Stone and only wanted his life to be better than it was on the streets. Later, when Robin witnessed Sonny’s love for Stone after he was diagnosed with AIDS, she finally understood. When Stone became very sick, Sonny took care of him until the very end.
After Stone’s death, Robin gave Sonny his ring, which he always wore. She had also asked him to write a letter for Stone’s Memory Book. It really shows how much Stone will always mean to Sonny.
Sonny has named his son, Morgan Stone Corinthos, in tribute to Stone.
Sonny's final letter to Stone
Stone, my man-
You just went off to bed and left me here with BB and Lucille working on "The Midnight Blues" and I figure it's a good time to try and do what Robin asked.
She said remember things that would make you laugh. What puts me away is how you can laugh in the middle of all this. How you can take stuff that nearly stops me from breathing when I think about it and cut it down to size with one of those gross, black comments you're getting so good at . . . In a way, with all respect to Robin, it feels presumptuous to try and make you laugh about anything.
Then I think about times like you mad at me for leaving the Jag out in the parking lot at 4:00 A.M. and going down in your undershorts and sneakers to put it in the garage not knowing the temperature had dropped thirty degrees and locking yourself out and yelling under my window till I came out of a long hot shower and heard you and went to let you in. Or the time you were going to prove to me that any fool can cook and freaked when the lobsters tried to climb out of the pot. Or when instead of three cloves of garlic you tossed three heads of garlic (unpeeled) into the marina sauce. And then ate it, because no way were you going to admit it was foul . . . I remember other things, not funny, that will be with me for the rest of my life. The first time I saw you with the other kids under the viaduct by the train yards, standing over the oil drum fire, the light on your face and your teeth chattering while you pretended you weren't freezing your tail off in a blue jean jacket with the wind coming of the lake, and nobody had a clue who ripped off my car radio . . .
I could go on with this all night, but that's not the point. The idea is we've shared a lot of stuff, and I've learned a hell of a lot more from you than you have from me, and I'm real grateful for that. And I love you man. Sonny.