Mint loves her, but she is dangerous. She spent ten years on the arm of a crime boss in the throes of rising power, a crime boss with cresting ruthlessness and a one track mind. He is sending the very arms of his organization to kill her for something she should have been able to do freely. Montana doesn't care about the money, Mint is sure of this. He wants her dead, and in Mint's opinion, he'd always wanted her dead.
Mint swirls wine around in his mouth thoughtfully, watches Mira where she lay in Mandrake's bed, naked except for a sheet thrown almost strategically across her lower half. He lights a cigar and takes a seat, powers on his phone. His eyes rake over text after text. He doesn't have the nerve to tell Mira that he hasn't exactly been truthful about things. Has not been truthful about anything, really.
Mandrake knocks on the door and Mint slides out of the room quickly before he knocks again and wakes Mira. "She isn't dressed," Mint says.
"That's the least of your fucking worries, Mallard," Mandrake grabs Mint by the collar and pushes him against the wall. His head makes a loud thudding sound that echoes loudly throughout the hotel room. In a quick movement, Mint grabs Mandrake's wrist, maneuvers it behind his back and shoves his face flat against the same wall.
"I know I'm fucking up, Mandrake, but don't test me," Mint says.
"Let me go or I will fucking break your goddamn arm, or worse, I'll wake Mira up and we'll have a little talk," Mandrake says. Not feeling up to the type of fight he and Mandrake are capable of, Mint releases him. The two men walk tensely out to the living room. The blonde women have gone, and they sit across from each other, the conversation Mint dreading on the tip of their tongues.
"So let's start off light. What in the hell are you doing with Mira?"
"None of your business. Why are you giving me such a hard time, you got your money, we should be square."
"We are far from that sort of shape, Mint."
"Have I ever told you your name is awful?"
"Ever since we were kids. What type of hippie name is Mint anyway?" Mandrake asks, the joke coming out harsh and awkward like any joke ever told in Mandrake's thick Russian accent. It is so easy to separate himself from Mandrake, their differences are so stark-but few.
"Ask your mom," Mint answers. He relaxes a bit and relights his cigar which had been snuffed out in he and Mandrake's scuffle. "Me and Mira, we're finally giving things a shot."
"A shot, huh?" Mandrake throws his head back, laughs. He rakes a hand through his bleached blonde hair and messes it up so that he takes on an unintended sadistic look-not a hard thing to achieve on a face as hard as Mandrake's. "Did you know that she and I are right in the middle of our shot?"
"She might have insinuated that before she passed out in your bed," Mint says with a smile, "but you and I both know how persistent I can be."
"Persistent is an understatement," Mandrake says. He stands and pours two tumblers of brandy at the bar. "I can't ignore what you guys have. Ever since you met that night-she is all you ever stay true to. However, you don't always show her that that is the way you feel."
"And that's where you come in, right? The Russian Mint with none of the emotional unavailability?"
