Seven Minutes in Hell

My fiancé, Luca, dragged me along to a party with his crew. We had barely walked through the door before his boys were hounding him to play "Seven Minutes in Heaven."

"Angelina, babe, come join us!" Fiona, Luca’s "best friend" from back home, called out to me with a smirk.

I shook my head and slipped onto a barstool, my fingers nervously tracing the rim of my glass. I watched them huddle in a circle, drawing cigar bands with names scribbled on them.

Luca drew Fiona. They shared a laugh before disappearing into the storage room behind the bar.

"Seven minutes! Starting... now!" someone hollered, followed by a chorus of whistles.

But seven minutes came and went. The door stayed shut.

Ten minutes. Fifteen. Twenty...

I finally stood up, my heart hammering against my ribs, ready to see what was going on. Just then, I heard Luca’s friends whispering in a thick Sicilian dialect.

"This American guy... her head is greener than a lemon tree in Palermo and she doesn’t even know it."

"I bet Luca and Fiona are having the time of their lives in there right now."

"Poor Boston girl. Look at her, sitting there like a loyal little dog. Hilarious."

I froze. My blood turned to ice, and the air felt too thin to breathe.

Suddenly, the storage room door creaked open. Luca walked out, wiping sweat from his brow, followed closely by Fiona, who was busy smoothing out her rumpled shirt.

"Whoa, how was it? Seven minutes in heaven live up to the hype?" someone teased.

Luca smirked, his eyes glazed with satisfaction. "Better. I didn't want to leave."

Luca strolled over and draped an arm around my shoulders, playing the part of the doting fiancé perfectly. It wasn't until he leaned in that I saw it—the smear of lipstick on his collar and the fresh hickey blooming on Fiona’s neck.

I slumped back onto the barstool, my soul feeling like it had been hollowed out. I dug my nails into my palms so hard they bled, trying to keep the tears from spilling over.

His friends started badgering him in Sicilian, fishing for the dirty details. Luca, perhaps feeling a flicker of guilt, glanced at me before sitting down and pulling me into his lap.

"Hey, what are you nervous for? She doesn't understand a word of Sicilian. If we were speaking English, then you’d have a reason to sweat!"

"She’ll never wrap her head around the dialect. Right, boys? Hahaha!"

"You guys are mean, picking on poor Angelina just because she's a Yank."

Hearing his friends' reassurance, Luca finally relaxed. He leaned in and pressed a kiss to my lips. "Don't mind them, Angelina. We’re all from Sicily; we just slip into the mother tongue when we’re together. Force of habit."

I clenched my fists until my knuckles turned white. What they didn't know was that my grandmother was Sicilian. I had been fluent in the dialect since I was a child.

Taking my silence for ignorance, they got even cruder.

"Luca, tell the truth—is Fiona’s technique better than hers? I’ve got money riding on this."

Luca didn't skip a beat. "Definitely."

The guys groaned in envy. "Look at that 'just got laid' grin on your face. You lucky bastard."

"Damn, playing it like this is such a rush! I never realized how useful the dialect was until today."

"Look at that stupid woman, sitting there looking pathetic, not understanding a damn word."

Fiona shot me a look of pure disdain before turning to Luca. "Luca, why don't you just marry me instead? Drop her."

Luca reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear with a mocking tenderness. "Marry you? Not a chance."

"I know how to separate business from pleasure. You’re my side piece—the one who gives me the thrills and the novelty. But Angelina? She’s the one I’m marrying."

"Can you handle the docks in New York Harbor? Can you talk to the Godfather for me? Only Angelina can do that. Last time the FBI was crawling up my tail, she made one phone call and moved her family’s entire legal team."

My throat tightened. I had done so much for him. I loved him with everything I had, and he had turned my loyalty into a joke.

"Oh no..." Fiona suddenly gasped, covering her mouth in fake horror.

"What is it?" Luca asked.

"You were too rough... my bra is torn and I left it in there," Fiona whispered, her face flushing. "What if someone sees it?"

"Damn it, Fiona. You’ve gotta be more careful," Luca hissed, frowning.

Fiona’s eyes flickered to me. "Hey... why don't we let Angelina go grab it? She’s the 'perfect wife' type, isn't she? So helpful."

"You..." Luca pretended to hesitate.

Fiona pressed on. "Angelina, honey, I know you're the best. You wouldn't want me to be embarrassed, would you? It was a limited edition Victoria’s Secret..."

Luca picked up his whiskey, downed it in one go, and looked at me. "Angelina, Fiona was playing a 'dare' and left her bra in the back. You're a girl, go help her out and grab it for her."