#* vidal

"Three years of my fucking life," she reiterates as if they weren't already very aware of how long she'd spent behind bars because one of their own decided to betray them to the french. "Three years, my friends are dead and I'm tired of being kept on this fucking leash." The distaste of the Rutherford ruling to keep her quiet - safe, and out of the public eye had worn thin very quickly, but with the recent uproar, and another short stint behind bars, Isla was through being polite about it. If the people she called her own wouldn't let her weigh in on the blood - perhaps the Russians would. "I'm not a god damn kid anymore."

"I don't know what you expect me to do," She spat, her frustrations not exactly aimed at him directly, if anything he was the least likely person that she'd ever find some sense of irritation towards. For all he'd done for her - for her father, she wasn't about to lie to him about what had happened. "He swung first, spineless prick..."

Isla couldn't count the number of times she'd already been told to lay low - to not draw attention, but the all-out brawl that started when she'd told the guy where to shove it had been anything but. Clearly; he hadn't expected her to swing back, and hard. The fact that it'd taken another two people to actively pull her off of him might have been an oversight on her part, but her anger had been brewing since before she'd been arrested, and there was no cooling it now, her bruised and bloodied knuckles only further proof.