The sun was sinking, still blazing hot, but at least the air started to breathe a bit. The sky was this messy orange, like someone dumped paint on a canvas and just left it. Streets were dusty, shadows stretched long and crooked, everything moving slow under that heat that slapped you in the face. But the city? Alive as hell. Loud, messy, full of life.
It was almost 6 PM, and the streets were packed with kids yelling, laughing, scooters buzzing like flocks of angry metal birds. And among them, a small crew stuck out. Shoving, laughing, joking around like they owned the place.
They pulled up to a rusty iron gate, all beat-up but still kinda badass, like it was saying: "serious stuff behind me." Scooters slowed, engines whining. Antonino, the natural leader, helmet still on, buzzed the intercom. He moved like the world spun around him, totally untouchable. The others, half-hidden under helmets or in shadows, were already buzzing with energy.
The gate creaked open. They threw each other quick looks, sly smiles: tonight was gonna be wild. They walked down the driveway to the first door on the right. Plain building, nothing fancy—but it screamed laughs, chaos, late-night trouble.
Antonino jumped off first, helmet tossed like he was on a stage. Hair sticking out everywhere, grin cocky as hell.
"Park it here, losers," he said, smirking at Samuele.
Samuele, tall, skinny, sarcasm always ready, eyed the scooter. "You sure this won't turn into a microwave under the sun?"
Antonino shrugged, grinning. "Relax. It cools off by itself at night," and gave Samuele a friendly nudge.
Marco, always half-asleep but sharp as hell, huffed as he got off. "Fine, fine, you park it. I'm just getting off."
Domenico, the realist, crossed his arms. "I don't trust this… we sure we won't end up walking at midnight?"
Antonino ignored him. "Go change. I'll get the pizzas. And no slacking—Gabriele's coming soon, and if he sees no pizza, it's chaos."
After changing, they met under the porch. Shade, breeze—finally. Samuele shivered, wrapped in a towel.
"Freezing, guys! How are you not freezing?"
Marco laughed, tossing him another towel. "Your thermostat's broken, dude."
Antonino checked his watch. "8:45. Gabriele should be here any second. Meanwhile, set the tables."
Marco and Domenico shoved chairs and tablecloths around, Samuele lit a few candles. Cozy vibes, even with pizza chaos all over.
The intercom buzzed. Marco jumped up. "Finally!"
Gate swung open, Gabriele rolled in on a smoking scooter, laughing loud. "Finally, guys!" Helmet dropped, chaos commenced.
Antonino patted his shoulder. "Always late, but at least you make an entrance."
Gabriele grinned. "Better to be waited for than too early, rule number one of style."
Dinner was messy as hell: pizzas everywhere, jokes flying, stories overlapping. All different, but together, tight and loud and messy.
Around 3:30 AM, sprawled on couches, exhausted but happy, Marco threw his head back.
"Ahahah… we're dead."
A scream cut through. "Ahhh! Cramp!" Gabriele doubled over.
Samuele laughed till he slapped his knees. "Serves you right! Four slices in a row… not easy."
Antonino, amused but careful, said: "Move a little, it'll pass."
Then, outta nowhere, Antonino tossed a random question at Domenico:
"You think Michele Serlenga would come beat us up if we got an SH?"
Domenico raised an eyebrow, calm. "Dunno… better not risk it."
Group erupted laughing. Trouble sounded… fun.
Night dragged on. Silence crept in. 4 AM. Marco, sudden spark of genius:
"Guys… we should start a gang."
Everyone looked at him. Half-asleep, half-curious.
Words hung heavy. But in their eyes—something glimmered. New idea. A start. Tonight wasn't just pizza and laughs… maybe tonight was the beginning of something big.
The morning after smelled like defeat and freezer pizza, like every other day when sleep clings to you and the world still moves too fast. Marco woke up with his phone buzzing beside his head, the sunlight stabbing through the blinds and drawing bars across his face. He blinked, dragged a hand through the mess on his head, and read the group chat again — the same chaotic mess that had been buzzing since the night before.
"Volevo formare una gang per difendere le persone deboli e farsi rispettare."
He'd said it blunt, half drunk on the idea: a lot of pride, a little bravado, the kind of words you throw out when you want to be bigger than you are. His friends had answered like expected — not exactly unified, but not dismissive either.
Samuele: "secondo me abbiamo troppa paura."
Gabriele: "di fare male agli altri ovvio."
Marco: "dobbiamo pensarci che volevo veramente aver il rispetto che meritiamo."
He could feel those words simmering in his chest. Respect. Not the Instagram kind, not the flex with a fake chain, but the kind that makes people stop when you walk into a place and just… know. He wanted that. Bad.
It was 11:50 the next day when the whole crew rolled up to Antonino's place. The same ritual: motorino chorus, half-shouts, a few jokes that never landed, the same little street that smelled like oil and old coffee. Marco, Samuele, Domenico, and Gabriele hopped off in a tangle, breathless, laughing like it was still last night.
"Ciao Anto, grazie mille per la disponibilità, e saluta i tuoi, però tuo fratello no," they said in a jumble as if they'd rehearsed it in their heads. Antonino stuck his head out like a king welcoming peasants. "Ciaoooo," he sang.
They stood there for a second, a sloppy pack of teenagers with glued-together loyalties. Samuele gave a half-wave. "Ci vediamo bro; riguardo la gang io più che altro provo male nel ferire gli altri." He looked at Marco like he'd dropped something real heavy.
Marco shrugged. "Questo si chiama buon cuore e nasconderlo o sminuirlo è sbagliato. Io voglio farlo ma voi dovete seguirmi."
Antonino rolled his eyes but the grin never left his face. There was something electric in the idea, like static before a storm. They all felt it — the tiny, dangerous possibility that tonight could change things.
Later, Marco crashed on his bed, sunlight and the warmth of the day making him heavy. He lay there chilling but not sleeping, thinking about what forming a gang actually meant. Protection is noble. Power is messy. Respect is addictive. He let the thoughts tumble, like loose coins in a pocket.
Then the phone exploded.
SIUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUMMM!!!!
He sat bolt upright. "Dio cristo, che paura, devo cambiare suoneria," he muttered. His thumb fumbled the screen. The name was familiar enough to make his stomach twist: Giulio Brozzu.
Marco's chest tightened. Giulio was that kind of kid who smiled like he hadn't a care, but had a leash full of knives in his pockets. He was loud, known for pushing people until someone snapped and then laughing about it. Not the kind you mess with unless you liked paperwork and bruises.
The first message read like a dare written with capital letters and an ego the size of a bus.
Giulio: "Marco, so che non sei un codardo. Infatti per sabato a Brucoli ho organizzato una rissa con te. Io mi porterò altri 5, saremo in 6. Ci saranno spettatori."
Marco blinked twice. He could see the scene before his eyes — the old docks at Brucoli, the concrete slick with salt and trash, faces leaning in the dark like predators. "Why me?" he typed, then deleted, then typed again.
Marco: "Perché sta cosa?"
Giulio's reply came fast, sharp, like a slap across the face.
Giulio: "Pk io ti odio e sarà il momento di umiliarti e prendere altro rispetto e fama. Ho scelto uno debole come te per vincere facile."
Marco's jaw dropped. The message was a direct brand: humiliation for sport. A public scoreboard. The kind of thing that stains your name and makes people laugh behind their hands. He felt his face go hot, the old familiar rush of adrenaline that made your blood taste like metal.
His fingers hovered. He could reply with anything — denial, a joke, begging. Instead he went for mockery, because that was what he did when fear pressed in.
Marco: "Se me lo dici così, mi stai dicendo in codice di usare la tua faccia come tavoletta del cesso, giusto??"
He waited, breath held like a kid waiting to see if their prank had landed.
Giulio didn't take the bait entirely. He kept it minimal, venom bottled in a single sentence.
Giulio: "Sbruffone. Vedremo in campo."
Marco read it again, heart thudding. He paced the room like a caged thing, eyes darting to the window as if Giulio could be outside right now. The thought of being mangled in front of people — of having his chops, his voice, his name turned into someone else's laugh track — made his blood hum.
"He wants to beat me up," he said aloud, as if the room needed to know. "That prick wants to beat me up."
But beneath the fear there was something else, fiercer and louder. It was an ember that had been fed by years of being overlooked, by teacher's pats on the shoulder that felt like fake coins, by being shoved out of the picture when the camera rolled. The ember grew. For the first time the thing he'd said last night — about starting a gang — looked less like a joke and more like a tool.
"Maybe this is the push," he thought. "Maybe this is the door."
He could hear Antonino's voice in his head: no delays, action. He could see Domenico's cautious eyes, Samuele's soft protest, Gabriele's pragmatism. He thought about all of them standing with him, not because they wanted a fight, but because they believed in the code: protect the small, stand up when someone tries to crush you. It was ugly and noble at the same time, and that double-edge made it perfect.
Marco slammed his phone down and typed into the group chat, fast, reckless.
Marco: "That asshole just sent me a message. Saturday. Brucoli. Six on one. He wants to humiliate me."
There was a pause in replies, like everyone sucked air at once.
Samuele: "Bro, that's messed up. I don't wanna see you get hurt."
Gabriele: "We ain't about hurting people, but we don't fold either."
Domenico: "This could go bad. Real bad. We need a plan, not a brawl."
Antonino: "We meet tonight. We talk. We decide. No hero moves, no dumb shit. If we're doing something, we do it smart."
Marco stared at those words. "Smart" sounded like planning and not throwing yourself at a pack of wolves with a stick. Smart meant training, watching, maybe scaring Giulio off before he ever lifted a hand. Marco liked that. He liked the image of them moving like a unit — not just five idiots swinging, but five minds, one purpose.
He imagined the gang then, not as a group of thugs but as a shield: people who stepped up when someone else was being shoved around. The romantic version of it: dignity for the weak, terror for bullies. The cruel version was simple too: power. Both were intoxicating.
The sun leaned down the day, the city breathing in and out like an animal. Marco texted his mother an excuse about staying late (because the truth was a little messy and mothers don't care for messy — they want you home, clean and unscathed). He left the house with a backpack, knees tight with energy, like he'd swallowed lightning.
At Antonino's that night, the porch was alive — the same voices, the same cigarette smoke even though they weren't supposed to be smoking, the same jokes that always circled back. But tonight there was strategy in the air. They stood around a benched table, the cheap streetlight buzzing above them like it was listening.
They talked fast, in fragments: who could help, who to recruit, where to train, and how not to look like idiots. Domenico scribbled on a napkin like a man trying to work out a blueprint for a small war. Samuele rocked back and forth on his heels, uneasy but present. Gabriele mapped out routes and exits like the boy who had always liked logistics more than glory.
Antonino nodded, eyes sharp. "We don't start fights. We start respect. If someone steps out of line, we step in. We do not mess with kids younger than us. No stealing. No stupid drama. We hold the line. We help the ones getting pushed around."
"That's the speech," said Marco, and it felt good in his mouth. He could taste the rules like metal. "We gotta train a bit," he added. "Not to hurt, but to not get hurt."
They all agreed, one by one, not because they'd thought it out but because the idea fit them like a glove. The gang — the word tasted dangerous and right. They'd been kids in a playground where no one had made the rules for them. Now they were going to write their own.
When the night stretched and the cigarettes dwindled, Marco felt a quiet ferocity in his chest. The Giulio message lay under everything like an accusation waiting to be answered. He imagined Saturday at Brucoli — an ugly crowd, flashing lights, someone trying to make a spectacle out of him. He imagined stepping into it not alone, but side-by-side with people who'd chosen him not for fun but for a reason.
"Force, cazzo," he muttered under his breath and let the words feel like armor.
They left the porch with a pact that wasn't signed and a plan that wasn't perfect, but it was theirs. Marco walked home with a new kind of weight — heavier than fear, lighter than relief. The idea had grown roots: protect, respect, rise. And in the deep dark of his room, he knew one thing for sure: Saturday was not the end. It was the start.
He set his phone on the nightstand, the ringtone now sounding more like a drumbeat than an alarm. He didn't change it. If Giulio wanted a fight, he could keep the date. Marco turned off the light, and the city hummed on outside like a beast with teeth.