The memory didn't just surface; it consumed me, dragging me back to a moment I had tried to bury deep in the recesses of my mind. It hit like a storm—raw, relentless, and impossible to escape.
"Rossi! Rossi! Don't you dare touch my son!" Adriana's voice echoed down the endless corridor, sharp and desperate, cutting through the air like shattered glass. Her screams were feral, guttural, unlike anything I'd ever heard from her before. My mother was fighting, clawing at the guards who held her back, her wrists twisting violently against the iron grip that restrained her.
"Vladi! If you touch him, if you fucking touch my son, I will kill you! Do you hear me? I will fucking kill you!" Her voice cracked, but it didn't falter. She was fire incarnate, her wild eyes burning with the kind of love that was both ferocious and helpless.
I turned to her, my little legs stumbling as I tried to resist the pull of his hand. But Vladimir's grip on my arm was unyielding, dragging me forward with an ease that made me feel insignificant. I could feel the bruises forming where his fingers dug into my skin, the pain barely registering beneath my panic.
"Mamma! Mamma!" I screamed, my voice raw and trembling. Tears blurred my vision as I twisted and pulled, trying to break free. But my voice—my small, terrified voice—was drowned out by the deafening clang of the steel door slamming shut behind us. The sound felt final, like a guillotine blade severing me from the only safety I'd ever known.
