Immigrant girl

Chapter 12. Anya.

That night, I slept like a baby. I didn't have any dreams. I was so mentally and physically exhausted that it seemed my body decided to give me a break. I was grateful for that.

I opened my eyes and stared at my reflection in the huge mirror across from the bed. Thoughts flooded my mind. So, Anya, you're in the home of the Russian mafia boss. You had dinner with him yesterday, and he even wanted to kiss you. Strange? No. Super strange. And that scumbag Mendes called Alex yesterday. I don't know what he told him, but I could see that Alex was furious. He said I had nothing to worry about and that I was safe. But for some reason, I didn't believe it. A feeling of unease lingered. Perhaps it was all the stress I'd been through in the past four days, and I just needed some rest. After all, I was here for that. To rest.

Today, I would meet with the immigration attorney. I hoped that he could help me with my paperwork. But the real question was, how much would he charge for his assistance? Most likely, I'd have to work just to pay this attorney. No problem; I'd find a part-time job for the other three days a week. The key was to obtain legal status.

I stretched and yawned deeply. I had slept long and hard, but it still felt like I hadn't slept well. I needed to get up. But what would I do? I felt out of place at Alex's home. Everything here was so different, so luxurious, not my style. I had the feeling I was on another planet. But that was just sentimental. What I really wanted was to eat. Downstairs, there was a kitchen, and I needed to check the fridge. If Alex had the idea to put notes all over the house, maybe he remembered to stock the fridge. My vague doubts whispered otherwise, but there was no harm in checking.

I got out of bed, tied my hair into a ponytail at the crown of my head, and borrowed pajama pants and a T-shirt from the closet. What could I say? Alex had called them a gift, and I hadn't thought to pack sleepwear. I went down the stairs, and my stomach was growling so loudly that it could have been heard in Kathmandu.

I walked into the kitchen and nearly ran to the large double-door fridge. Opening the doors, I heaved a sigh of relief; it was stocked with food. There was everything a person could want—vegetables, fruits, juices, milk, cottage cheese, seafood, meat, and much more. I stood there, gazing at the fridge's contents. I decided to make pancakes with cottage cheese; all the ingredients were there. I started searching for a container in which I could prepare the pancake batter and quickly found one in a nearby cupboard. A ladle was neatly stowed in a holder alongside other kitchen utensils next to the stove.

Preparing the batter didn't take long; I estimated everything by eye, and my hand was skilled at the task. I stood by the stove, humming to myself as I prepared the pancakes, when I failed to hear someone enter the house or the kitchen.

"What's for breakfast today?" I jumped in surprise. I turned around and saw Alex, leaning against the wall.

"You promised to knock, didn't you?" My voice held a clear reproach.

"Well, I didn't exactly walk into your bedroom; the kitchen is common territory," he replied, his smile never leaving his handsome face. "So, what's for breakfast?"

"Pancakes with cottage cheese," I replied, returning to the stove to make sure the delicate batter didn't burn. "According to my grandmother's recipe." With my back turned, I felt Dovlatov's intense gaze on me.

"Will you share?" He took a seat at a small round table, stretching his legs.

"I'll share if you don't sit here like a king but help instead," he was getting on my nerves. He came in, sat down, and thought I'd wait on him. Though it was his house, and he had every right to act however he wanted.

"Purely theoretically, I am a king, or rather, a boss," he said, seemingly in a playful mood. "But I'm ready! What do I need to do?" He quickly got up from his chair and approached the stove. I could feel his closeness, and shivers ran down my spine. He looked so casual, so homely, in gray sweatpants and a white pullover. His hair was tousled, not completely dry from his shower. He still smelled of expensive leather and sea salt. There was also a bandage wrapped around his right hand. That wasn't there during dinner yesterday.