POV: Isla..“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me, Dad.” I slammed the door of his study so hard the windows shook loudly. My heart was already pounding, half from rage, half from the adrenaline that always kicked in when I fought with Enzo Moretti. My father “Language, Isla,” he said calmly, not even bothering to look up from his papers, like I was some annoying fly buzzing around his head. “Language?” I laughed without humour. “You’re planning to cage me, and you’re worried about my language?”“Isla, sit down and listen to me for once.” He finally looked at me, dropped the pen, and rubbed a hand over his face. He looked tired, the lines around his eyes deeper than they were last week. “Three nights ago, you almost got yourself killed.”I remained standing, my hands curling into a fist at my sides. “So what? Mom died last year; people die, in fact, everyone dies one day. I’m twenty-one, Dad. I'm an adult, so if I want to die, leave me the hell alone!”He narrowed his eyes at
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