The Party Is Over (Lilah Love Book 8)

The blade I hold in my delicate little hands—everyone knows “delicate” describes me to a tee—is nice and shiny, not to mention sharper than even my tongue. In other words, it’s lethal. And as much as I love a good lethal blade, I’d prefer my firearm right about now. It’s easier to handle multiple targets. But it’s under my skirt, and if I show these men my underwear, I’ll have to kill them. Not that I’m not willing to kill them all, but considering not one of them stopped me from retrieving my weapon, I’m not sure that’s how this has to end.

But then, the cartel’s preference for Kane over Miguel in the wake of Kane’s father’s death is the entire problem at hand. It’s why Miguel wants Kane dead. It’s why Kane can’t seem to walk away from what was his father’s world, but never his world by aspiration. A criminal organization that craves Kane for his ability to both control his enemies and create a tenable existence outside of violence is pure irony in its finest form.

It also speaks of what a low-life, ineffective leader Miguel has become since claiming the reins some years before. His is a legacy that would be built on rivers of blood if Kane didn’t step in and negotiate a better path. It is this inside view that has allowed me to accept Kane’s connection to the cartel rather than shun its existence. But there is a truth here I can never escape. If I kill Miguel, Kane inherits the cartel and for this reason, I have promised Kane not to kill his uncle. But I never said anything about not hurting him. Hurt him, I intend to. And I have such a delicious plan to bring him to his knees.

Miguel’s back remains my target, and I don’t do the backstabbing thing. I prefer him to know what hit him, and that’s me.

“Miguel!” I call out.

He rotates to face me and his gaze lands on the blade in my hand, a moment of concern followed by unmerited relief. It washes over his expression, thick like honey on a hungry bear’s face, sticky and sweet, at least to me, because it proves, he too, is stupid.

You see, what few people know about me is that I was on a knife-throwing team in college. Yep. Little ol’ me. I have always liked a good, shiny, and sharp blade, and with practice and time, I learned how to throw with more force than a man Kane’s size.

It’s all in the grip and flick of the wrist.

I lift my arm, and crook back my wrist, fully intending to plant my blade in a place the sun does not shine. It’s time for Miguel Mendez to be brought to his knees.