When she pulled away, his eyes were shining. ‘I’ll never leave you again, Nene,’ he said, his voice hoarse. ‘I’ll protect you now. We’ll always be together, I promise.’

‘We always were,’ she smiled, feeling his arm hook around her waist and pull her closer to him, their bodies pressed together, exhausted and thin, bloodied and desperate. He kissed her again, more urgently now, his hands gripping her to him and she felt her body respond, softening, yielding . . .

The punch, when it came, sent them both flying. Marina found herself on the ground, Santi spun into the wall, dazed. She looked up and cried out in fright to see Modesto bearing down upon them both, his bloodied fist unnoticed as his chest heaved with terrifying anger.

‘Miguel,’ she beseeched, holding her hands up placatingly. ‘Please—’

‘You little whore,’ he snarled, his words a hiss as he spat at her, kicking out with a booted foot. ‘I should have known.’

‘No!’ Santi cried, launching himself at him, throwing a punch that connected with Miguel’s jaw, but made little impact – there was at least five inches and twenty kilograms’ difference between them.

‘Stop!’ Marina shouted as they wrestled, fists flying, missing, connecting, a melee of limbs sending them both careering into the wall and off again.

She scrambled away from them desperately as they brawled, tears streaming down her face in horror as Miguel landed one, two blows, sending Santi sprawling to the floor. He was bleeding from the nose, one brow cut, but he got up again, his black eyes blazing as they always did. Often down, never out.

‘Please! Miguel, stop! You’ll kill him!’

‘That’s the idea,’ Miguel snarled, raising his hands up in a fist, ready to go again.

Santi rushed in at him again – fearless, furious – this time getting one up on the bigger man by kicking his feet out from under him and sending him flat on his back, winding him momentarily. He kicked out, catching him in the ribs, the head, but Miguel – a seasoned thug – caught his leg and flipped him up like a twig.

Both men lay dazed for a moment and Marina scrambled to her feet, looking around for something, anything, with which to fight. She saw the pistol which Santi had tossed away in alarm when he had realized it was her, half buried in the dust. She ran towards it but Miguel caught her foot, as if realizing her intent, sending her sprawling again.

‘Get back here, you fascist bitch,’ he said, closing his fist around her ankle just as her fingers made contact with the cold steel. With hands shaking violently, she grabbed it, pointing it straight at him as he flipped her over onto her back.

He froze momentarily as he looked down the barrel of the frantically shaking gun, a cold smile gradually spreading across his lips. ‘You wouldn’t dare. You don’t have it in you, Marina Mendoza. You can’t even kill the enemy.’