Luca let out a short, dry laugh. "Let them talk. If they see a 'golan,' they leave us alone. It’s a shield, little brother. In this world, if you aren't the wolf, you're the sheep."
"Go home," Luca muttered, his voice gravelly. "And if anyone asks where you got it, tell them you found it. Don't tell them a 'golan' gave it to you. It'll ruin my reputation." Fratii Peste Zice lumea ca-s golan
Luca didn't walk; he swaggered. With his collar popped and a leather jacket that had seen more late-night deals than daylight, he played the part perfectly. To the neighbors, he was the trouble they whispered about over morning coffee. To the authorities, he was a name on a list they could never quite pin down. Luca let out a short, dry laugh
One rainy Tuesday, Luca sat at a corner bodega, stirring a coffee with a plastic spoon. Across from him sat his younger brother, Mateo. It’s a shield, little brother
"They’re talking again, Luca," Mateo said, nodding toward a group of elders crossing the street to avoid them. "They say we’re nothing but trouble. That we’ve got no soul, just greed."
In the heart of a neon-lit neighborhood where the bass from passing cars rattled windowpanes, lived a man named Luca—better known to the streets as one of the "Fratii Peste." He carried a reputation that preceded him like a shadow, fueled by the lyrics of the songs that echoed from every open balcony: "Zice lumea ca-s golan" (People say I’m a hoodlum).