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“I think you should leave.”

A crash, like something being thrown. “You don’t tell me what to do, Red. That’s now how it works. I tell you. I tell you and you do it, like the obedient bitch you are.”

I move closer to the door, every muscle tense.

Glass breaks.

A thud.

“Get your hands off me—” Lena’s voice, suddenly tight with pain. “Please, stop! Marco, stop!” She cries out.

That’s all it takes.

I step back and kick hard at the door, just beside the lock. The wood splinters and the door flies open, banging against the wall. The scene before me burns into my brain: Lena pressed against the wall, Marco’s hand around her throat, her eye swelling.

For a moment, everyone freezes. Then Marco’s face twists with rage as he releases Lena and turns to face me.

“You picked the wrong door to kick down, Callahan.”

“And you picked the wrong woman to put your hands on.” My voice sounds distant to my own ears, cold and dangerous. The rage building inside me is unlike anything I’ve felt before—white-hot and consuming.

Marco reaches inside his jacket. I move before he can draw his weapon, closing the distance between us in two strides. My first punch catches him in the solar plexus, doubling him over. The second connects with his jaw, sending him staggering back.

“Callahan, don’t!” Lena starts, but I’m beyond hearing.

Marco recovers quickly, a fighter’s instinct. He swings, a right hook that would have knocked me cold if it had landed. I duck under it, feeling the old boxer’s rhythm return. Jab, cross, slip, hook. Simple combinations, but effective. I land two shots to his ribs, hear the satisfying crack of bone.

He’s stronger than he looks, though, and he already looked like an ox. A wild swing connects with my temple, sending stars across my vision. He follows with a knee to my gut that drivesthe air from my lungs. I stumble back, gasping, as he pulls a switchblade from his pocket.

“I’m going to carve up your pretty face, detective,” he growls, the blade glinting in the afternoon light. “Then I’m going to make you watch while I carve her up too.”

The rage crystallizes into something cold and focused. Time seems to slow as he lunges forward, blade aimed at my abdomen. I sidestep, grabbing his wrist and twisting until the knife clatters to the floor. Then I’m on him, all technique forgotten as I drive my fists into his face again and again.

I don’t stop until I feel arms around me, pulling me back.

“Callahan! Stop, you’ll kill him!”

Good.

But Lena’s voice breaks through the fog of violence, brings a whisper of clarity. I want him dead, but not like this. I let her pull me away, chest heaving, knuckles split and bleeding. Marco lies on the floor, face a mess of blood, barely conscious.

“Get out,” I tell him, my voice a rasp. “Get out and don’t come back here.”

Marco spits blood onto the floor and pushes himself to his knees. “You’re dead, Callahan. Both of you.”

“Touch her again and they’ll never find your body.” The words come from somewhere deep and dark inside me, and I mean every one of them.

He staggers to his feet, using the wall for support. His eyes, nearly swollen shut, fix on Lena. “Mickey will hear about this. You think I’m the worst thing that can happen to you? Just wait.”

“Get out,” I repeat, taking a step toward him, raising my fists to remind him there’s a lot more where this came from.

I can go all night.

He backs toward the door, hatred radiating from him in waves. “This isn’t over, baby. By tomorrow night, there won’t be enough of you left for your detective to mourn.”

Then he’s gone, leaving a trail of blood droplets in his wake.

The apartment falls silent except for our breathing. I turn to Lena, the rage draining away, replaced by concern as I take in her appearance. Somehow she doesn’t look as bad as I first thought, her swollen eye already seeming to recede. I reach out, gently touching her face.