I shower and pull on the microscopic dress I bought after saying goodbye to Vilde and Astrid. They recommended I wear something showy to fit in. It has a deep V cut at the front, an even deeper one at the back, and the hem just barely covers my butt.
I’ve never worn anything like this in my entire life. I’m so uncomfortable in it, I can’t help but constantly tug it in place as I wait for a cab. When the taxi arrives, I maneuver my body inside the car and somehow manage to avoid a nip slip.
The girls told me earlier that I should just ask one of the servers if a manager is around when I arrive. It’s not much of a plan, especially since I don’t know what I’m going to say even if I’m able to find someone to talk to. All I know is that I’m ready to beg for a job if I have to.
“We’re here,” the driver announces as we pull to a stop.
When he tells me the amount, I groan inwardly. I didn’t trust myself to figure out the bus schedule in the middle of the night, but it looks like I’ll have to on my way home.
I pay the driver and get out to look around. The beach is nearby. I can’t see it, but I smell the salt in the air. There are a few apartment buildings, nothing too attention grabbing, except for a giant neon sign on top of a boxy structure that says Revolvr.
When I step inside the property, my jaw drops.
It’s way bigger than what it looked like from the outside. I’m lost immediately. I pass by at least three bars before entering the main area where a DJ is playing bass-heavy dance music. It’s a cavernous space with balconies, multiple levels, and a massive dance floor. You could fit thousands of people here, easy.
My head spins, and not just because of the strobe lights or the fast-paced Japanese cartoon playing on a big screen. They’ll never find me here, I realize with relief. If I get a job at the club, no one will notice me working in these masses of gyrating bodies and blinking lights.
I approach a small bar tucked against one of the walls and try to catch the attention of a server. “Excuse me!”
He doesn’t hear me. The music coming through the sound system is too loud.
I try again, and it feels uncomfortable. I’ve always been told to be soft spoken and demure, but I can’t afford to be like that anymore. Literally. If I want to survive on my own, I need to step way outside my comfort zone.
The server finally notices me. “Hola,” he says, eyeing me up and down. “Dime.”
“I’m sorry, I’m looking for a manager. Is there one here tonight?”
His brows scrunch together. “A manager? I don’t know, I just started my shift. Look, we’re really busy.”
I clear my throat. “Who’s in charge tonight?”
The server purses his lips. “The boss is here, so he’s in charge. You see that small balcony way up there?”
I turn to look in the direction he’s pointing, and that’s when I see him.
A lone man stands on a balcony high above the dance floor, flickering lights dancing over his form.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight.
The server’s voice comes in muffled, as if someone placed a glass container over my head. “That’s Señor De Rossi.”
Even from this far away, he’s intimidating. Tall, straight-backed, and impeccably dressed. He’s wearing a meticulous three-piece suit that molds to his body as if it’s made of putty. I’ve spent my life around men dressed in suits like that, and I know what they mean.
Power. Prestige. Brutality.
My eyes widen as his dark gaze slides my way.
Stop. You’re projecting.
My paranoid mind is still seeing danger everywhere. He’s a club owner, not a made man.
But he’s looking at me as if I exist solely for his consumption. As if I’d been bought and paid for by him, and today’s the day he takes possession.
I shake the feeling off.
I’m not here to be claimed.
“He’s looking at you,” the server says, sounding a little perplexed, as if this isn’t a normal occurrence. “Do you know each other?”
“No,” I say. “But I need to talk to him.”
There’s wry laughter behind me. “Good luck.”
I turn back to ask the server what he means by that, but he’s already gone, pouring someone else a drink. I could use some liquid courage, but I’m not in a position to afford a fifteen-euro cocktail.
When I look back at the balcony, De Rossi’s attention is somewhere else. There’s a bearded man with dark slicked-back hair standing beside him.
The newcomer has an impressive physique-brawny and muscular. He’s got a walkie-talkie clipped to his belt like the bouncers, but he’s not wearing a Revolvr branded T-shirt like the others I’ve seen mulling around. He pats De Rossi on the back in a familiar greeting and says something to the man. I get the feeling that the two of them are friends.
What if they leave somewhere together? I can’t waste any time.
To the surprise of absolutely no one, I get stopped by a bouncer at the bottom of the stairs that lead to the balcony.
“Staff only,” he says in a monotone voice.
“I need to speak to Mr. De Rossi.”
He gives me a cursory look, sniffs, and shakes his head. “And I need to go home and fuck my wife. We’ve all got our dreams.”
My cheeks redden, but I pull my shoulders back. “Please, this is very important.”
“I doubt it.”
“I just need a few minutes.”
His eyes narrow. “I said, staff only. Do you want to be escorted out?”
My nails dig into my palms. Shit. What am I supposed to do?
“Let her pass.”
I glance in the direction of the voice. It’s the brawny guy who was talking to De Rossi. He’s just come down the stairs, and now he’s looking at me with curious eyes. On his left earlobe is a small dangly silver earring.
“Ras,” the bouncer says. “You sure?”
“Ella llamó su atención.”
The bouncer gives me a cross look, sighs heavily, and lifts the velvet rope. “Go.”