Marco's voice came out flat, like someone throwing a stone into still water and watching the ripples fight each other.
"Giulio threatened to send me — and whoever I bring — to the hospital. I'm not scared, and the first people who came to my mind are you lot."
He looked at each of them as he said it, one by one, as if naming them would turn the idea into reality.
"Gabriele — you do karate and you're honestly strong.
Samuele — when you get pissed, you turn into one of the strongest.
Domenico — I swear there's something about you that can drop someone in one shot.
Antonino — you're solid, but most of all you're sharp; you know how to figure out who Giulio will bring.
I want you with me."
No dramatic pause, no cinematic music — just the porch light, the buzzing streetlamp, and five kids suddenly carrying a future on their shoulders.
Gabriele was first to answer. He didn't chew the words, he spat them. "Yeah. I'm in. I won't back down." His English translated like a shrug: "I'm with you. I won't step back."
Samuele blinked slow, palms jammed in his pockets. "Even if I got doubts, I'll back you guys always." His voice wasn't loud, but it held a promise. Translation: "Even though I have doubts, I always support you."
Domenico, quiet like a man who thinks before he breathes, nodded once. "I'm in for sure. For you guys." Translation: "I'm in, certainly for you all."
Antonino let out a half-laugh, like he'd expected to refuse and couldn't find a good reason. "I have no choice." Translation: "I don't have a choice." Nobody laughed — it wasn't funny.
Samuele clapped a hand on Antonino's shoulder. "After all, you didn't say it — a bro's problem is every bro's problem." Translation: "A bro's problem is everyone's problem."
Marco felt the room tilt. This — this backing — was the first real thing beyond words. He breathed out, softer than he'd imagined. "I didn't think it'd be so easy, but damn, you're the best."
He stood up like he had something to announce. "I have a declaration! Listen up, guys!" He loved the sound of his own voice when he got like this — loud, cracked, convincing.
"When we beat Giulio — one of the biggest idiots in Augusta — we'll get some fame. If we lose, we get laughed at, humiliated, whatever. But if we win… we become the gang I talked about."
A chorus of whoops and shouts filled the porch, raw and hungry. "Yessss!!!" they yelled, loud enough to make someone inside glance out the window.
"Now — let's figure out who Giulio's boys are," Antonino said, brow furrowed as he lit a cigarette he swore he didn't smoke anymore.
Gabriele leaned forward like a kid announcing the villains in a comic. "They'll be Marco Pugliares, Christian Sosta, Mattia Creglia, Andrea Casinotti." He named them slow, each name a small puzzle piece. "He's a bastard, but I don't think he plays dirty. He's not the kind to bring an eighteen-year-old with no spine — that's not his style. He wants to do this himself, be the center. If it was up to him, he'd take us out solo. He wants the spotlight."
Marco snorted. "The only thing that'll be the center of attention is his red, slapped butt."
They laughed — not the proud kind, but that sharp, nervous laugh that comes before a storm. Marco felt something tighten in his chest: strategy forming out of adrenaline and stupid teenage bravery.
They started listing details like detectives with no training. Who liked to show off? Who acted alone? Who loved an audience? Antonino's mind worked like a map. He'd lived in the alleys and learned the routes; he could tell who would bring who just by which bars they frequented and who paid for whose drinks.
Domenico added, quiet and practical: "We need to know the rules. Where is it? Time? Witnesses? Cameras?" He tapped his phone like a man with a ledger. "If there are cameras, it's different. If there aren't, we can set traps, distractions."
Samuele's fingers drummed on the bench. "I don't want anyone hospitalized. We're not criminals. We do this to show we're not pushovers, not to prove we're violent. If someone needs a beating because they deserve it, maybe. But not a massacre."
Gabriele rolled his neck. "So, no insane moves. We show up, we look organized, we don't give them a reason to say we started it. If it's six on one, we need numbers. Friends watching, people to back us if it goes south."
Antonino was already moving a step ahead, coldly efficient. "We'll pick spots. Routes. Have an exit for each of us. If Giulio tries to use weapons, we back off. Go to the cops. Don't be stupid."
Marco felt ridiculous and alive. "We take the high ground. We don't start it, but we finish it. Make them remember the price of their mouth."
They spent the night making ugly lists. Names, times, possible witnesses. Who'd be likely to film. Which alleys had cameras. Where someone could hide a bottle or a brick. It was messy and ugly and perfectly them: boys trying to play chess with no idea how to move the knight.
At some point, somebody suggested recruiting others — cousins, kids from other streets, that kid who did boxing in the gym down by the port. "The more the merrier," someone said. Antonino shut that down fast. "No — the more the merrier is idiotic. We don't want every idiot with a vendetta to show up barking. We keep it tight. Five is fine. Five means we know each other. Five means less chances of somebody flipping."
Marco agreed. There was a pride in the small number; it made them feel elite and exclusive. He liked the idea of a tight circle rather than a mob. It meant trust, which in this life was currency.
They argued about training like it was a sport. Gabriele offered to teach some basics — how to break a fall, how to throw a punch that doesn't destroy your wrist. "Not to hurt, to defend," he said, patient and precise. Marco liked the cut of his plan. "We train to survive. That's it. No glory shots."
Days passed like something under high tension. They met in the evenings, sometimes in groups of two or three, passing small drills and laughing at nerves. Marco watched Samuele shadow-box — he moved differently when angry, full of teeth. Domenico practiced a step that felt like science — one precise move and a person could find themselves stunned and on the floor. Antonino scouted nights, his eyes sharper than usual.
Rumors about the fight spread slow and mean. Giulio, as expected, was talking — loud, vicious. He wanted a scene. Marco wanted something else: to stop being the guy who got shoved off camera, to be someone who noticed when other people were pushed and stepped forward.
There were nights Marco lay awake and thought about all the ways it could go wrong. About Julian getting cut by a bottle, about cameras that lied, about one punch that ruined someone's life. But then he'd picture a kid on the bus who shrank when older kids bumped him. That image pushed the doubts away like a tide.
Samuele put it simply one night, small and raw. "If we do this, we do it for each other. Not for fame, not for fights. For everyone who's been shoved. For everyone who's too scared."
That made Marco realize: this was never purely about him. It was about being part of something that could be used for good, even if the idea was tainted with ego. It felt complicated and real, like the bruises and the clean skin after a fight.
When the day of the showdown loomed, their little gang—more plan than name—felt like a living thing. It breathed in the spaces between them, in the glances and in the cigarettes they swore not to smoke. They walked the streets with new posture, not arrogant but watchful. They weren't sure if they'd be praised or arrested, lifted or laughed at, but they'd chosen the line they wanted to stand on.
Marco remembered his declaration — the gang, the respect, the line between noble and cruel. He knew they weren't perfect, and they'd probably do something stupid. But for the first time, the idea of being counted on felt heavier than fear.
"Friends," he said that night, "we do this together. No heroics. No idiots. If one falls, we fall together."
They all agreed in ways that didn't need translating.
Outside, the city breathed and cars threaded the dark like slow fish. Inside, on the porch, five shadows leaned in and planned their next wrong right.