Immigrant girl

Chapter 3. Anya.

What do people usually wear for an interview with the head of the Russian mafia?

I woke up very early, and on top of that, I had a restless night's sleep. I dreamt of concrete mixers, Caleb's laughter, and blood-stained T-shirts. I'm just too sensitive.

I stood in the living room in front of a large mirror attached to the wall. This was already the eighth, maybe even the tenth outfit. My big white couch was covered in a heap of clothes. I had already rejected the idea of wearing pants and a shirt. After all, I wasn't going for an office job; I was going to be a waitress at a nightclub owned by a mobster. Dark blue form-fitting dresses slightly above the knee were also among the discarded options. I didn't want to be seen as a frivolous, blonde airhead. A tracksuit wasn't appropriate either. Shorts, jeans, and leggings were all out of the question.

And there I was, contemplating my reflection, or more precisely, my latest outfit. I was wearing a gray knitted skirt that fell below the knee. A white tank top peeked out from under a loose, dark green sweater with a chunky knit (it was November, and it was quite chilly outside). White classic Nike Air Max sneakers adorned my feet. The skirt beautifully accentuated my behind, and the sweater did a good job of concealing the slight bulge around my stomach, which I still found cute. I nodded in satisfaction, not too formal but not overly revealing, just right. This way, I could highlight both my femininity and modernity, all while feeling comfortable. But clothes alone were unlikely to make me feel even a little bit more at ease.

Damn it, I would be face to face with one of the most dangerous people in the USA. Dangers aside, something had to be done about my hair. Without much thought, I tied my hair into a ponytail, leaving two strands hanging on the sides to prevent my face from looking too round.

I was ready. Or was I not? Well, who cares? I was going no matter what.

All that was left was to grab my purse, which was buried under a pile of my clothes. After digging it out, I placed my wallet, keys, and a pepper spray canister inside (of course, I was going to the hideout of gangsters, but I doubted it would save me). I unlocked my old iPhone (I didn't have the opportunity to buy a new one, not even on installment, as it required documentation, and I want to remind you that I'm an illegal immigrant) and opened the Uber app to call a taxi to the club. As you can probably guess, I don't have a car. I entered the club's address and almost choked—$30! If they hire me, I'll have to ask if they offer corporate transportation or if they can cover my taxi expenses. Otherwise, I'll have to rely on public transport, which is nearly nonexistent in this city. I ordered a car, and the screen displayed a notification that the entire trip from home to the club would take 25 minutes, and I wouldn't even have to get on the freeway.

As I descended, the car had already arrived, and I got into the back seat, exchanging greetings with the driver before gazing out of the window. The car smoothly started moving and pulled onto Sunset Boulevard. I looked at the palm trees neatly lining both sides of the road. The sun was shining brightly, casting reflections in the windows of the offices. I hadn't even noticed when we turned onto Santa Monica Boulevard. We were rapidly approaching the club, and I felt that a significant change was about to happen in my life. I could only pray that it would be a positive one and not the reason for the end of my life. Anxiety was growing with every passing minute; my palms began to sweat profusely, my breathing became irregular, and my stomach twisted into a tight knot. I felt hot and opened the window. The cool air filled my lungs, and I took a few deep breaths, feeling my heart rate start to slow down. The last thing I needed was a panic attack. The car came to a stop right at the entrance to the club.

And there I stood in front of the massive black double doors, above which hung an inconspicuous black sign with a red neon inscription that read "N-E-V-A." "Modesty is a sister of talent," I thought to myself with a smirk. I slowly made my way toward the doors, placing my hand on the handle. I took a few more deep breaths and walked in.