
Seven Minutes in HellMy 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."