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“Are you going to deal with him?” I ask, trying to get him to confirm if it’s Capello.
“He’s dead,” Roman replies with an exhale. “It happened when I was still behind bars.”
So the forums were right. He’s talking about the Capello Casino boss who died with his entire family at the hands of the gunman who detonated explosives around the house to escape the guards.
Roman’s in such a talkative mood, and I’m not going to ruin things by stating the obvious. He probably doesn’t want to admit he hired the assassin to take out his enemies.
“I’ve never heard of anyone on death row getting pardoned,” I murmur.
“Exonerated,” he says.
“What’s the difference?”
“New evidence came to light,” he replies, his voice bitter. “A recording of a man who obviously wasn’t me murdering that woman.”
“Didn’t they look at fingerprints, DNA evidence, or anything to prove you weren’t the killer?”
He laughs, but it doesn’t meet his eyes. “Someone tampered with every piece of evidence that proved my innocence. The man who got caught claimed it was on my orders.”
“And it wasn’t.”
“No,” he snarls. “The bastard who framed me did everything he could to make me look guilty, down to bribing the judge. He made sure every appeal got shut down and even tried to bring forward the execution.”
My hands curl into fists. “I’m glad he’s dead.”
Roman only cups the back of my head and places a kiss on my brow.
* * *
I spend the rest of the day alone in the pool house, reworking the painting I made of Roman by Simon’s Pond. After our conversation, I cast his features in darkness and make his figure backlit by the setting sun.
The water’s surface reflects rays of white fire, surrounding his figure in a full-body halo. I call this painting ‘Out of the darkness comes the light.’
It represents Roman’s strength and his resilience in the face of such overwhelming tragedy and betrayal. It’s a reminder that even in his darkest moments, he still found hope.
A knock sounds on the door as I’m starting a new painting. Roman walks in, holding a large box.
My eyes widen. “Another one?”
He grins. “What can I say? My love language is giving gifts.”
Wiping my hands on a rag, I cross the room and place a quick peck on his lips. “Don’t touch me. I’m wet.”
Roman snickers. “You sure you’re talking about the paint?”
He lets me pack away my supplies, wash away all traces of oil paint, and change out of my apron into a sundress.
We walk into the bedroom, where I open the box. I part the wrapping paper, expecting the shoe box inside to contain a pair of designer heels, but I pull out a newer version of my favorite shoes.
“What’s this?” I whisper.
Roman chuckles and places a hand on the small of my back. “Keep going.”
I pull out a flat box that contains a fitted denim dress from Diesel. It’s one of those brands that isn’t ridiculously expensive but is only affordable for me in a clearance sale.
“Roman!” My voice rises several excited octaves. “How did you know I’d like this?”
“You were wearing denim when we met,” he replies with a smirk. “This seems more like your usual style.”
