Epilogue
Victor
Three years later
“I was told that three paintings got sold,” I whisper to Seva with my heart in my throat.
I can hardly believe it. After all those years, my paintings hang on the walls of a gallery, and people are walking around, drinking wine and eating tiny sausages on sticks while assessing my artwork.
It’s nothing major, a small gallery in Taormina, but they’re getting seen.
I’m wearing a designer sweater, Seva is in a tailored suit, and for years now, no one has hunted us down.
The destruction of his old house remains a mystery with many questions about the identities of the bodies found.
A few surviving, half-burned paintings have sold for eye-watering amounts, which have sadly not reached our pockets, but we have more than enough to live on.
“I swear, Seva, if it turns out you bought them to make me happy, I will kill you.”
He frowns, cocking his head as our eyes meet in front of the largest work on show—a stylized oil portrait of a man half submerged in water on a summer day, visible from the nose down. Us being in hiding definitely inspires me as much as the Italian summer.
My partner looks different now. The plastic surgery didn’t bring major changes to his beautiful features, but he no longer appears exactly like the man in all those expensive self-portraits.
That Sevastyan was a perfect image, with no flaws to make him human.
My Sevastyan has a smaller nose, and mild burn scars, but somehow he is even more beautiful to me. Because I love him.
I can’t believe that we found one another despite the odds. Despite my insane home invasion.
“You’re kidding me? Stand closer to Mrs. Russo and listen to what people are telling her. I won’t believe no one approached you to talk about Gelato Time just yet. It’s so delectably gay.”
He points out a slightly lewd self-portrait of mine, which pictures me in a sun chair, mouth open, and ice cream dripping from my mouth and fingers. I might also only be seen from the nose down, but my freckles are a pretty obvious giveaway.
Never in my life did I imagine I’d be painting things so happy and full of life when I used to be inspired by corpses.
That might just be the testament to how alive I feel.
I have Seva to thank for that. Before him, I never felt beautiful either.
Now here I am, showing off my body in the paintings, openly gay, and proud of everything I am.
“Maybe the men who want to talk to me see your glare and choose to stay away?” I tease with a big grin.
“Plenty of women here,” Seva tells me, sipping his wine.
“Sure, because they’d want to see me salivate over a cone of gelato.”
“I have no idea what you mean,” he says, smirking, and gently pokes my shoe with his. “Art is art.”
I don’t even notice once we drift closer to a small crowd facing a large-scale oil depicting Seva’s hands holding a glass of pineapple juice, complete with a slice of the fruit hung over the container. His face hides in heavy shadow, while the sun behind him makes everything else glisten.
I’m not yet fluent in Italian, but I know the language enough to understand that everyone here likes the picture. Two men discuss the ‘tenderness’ with which I depicted every detail of his scarred hands.
They’re not wrong. I kiss those hands every day, remembering how they saved my life.
In our little villa out of town, we have created our own paradise, not far away from the sea.
We travel less than we first talked about, but I’m glad, because our home is where I most love to be.
There, I can be free and naked with Seva.
We can paint all day and entertain each other.
Vera, the gallery owner approaches the pineapple painting, and I’m about to ask her how things are going, but she smiles at me in passing and places a red dot on the plaque by the painting, indicating that it’s sold.
“We’ll talk tomorrow, Vander. It’s hectic. Everyone wants a piece of you.” She winks at me and walks off.
I can hardly comprehend that people are paying for my work. She believed in me when even I was unsure if I was ready to show my art. Of course, she wasn’t the first, because none of the paintings exhibited tonight would exist if it wasn’t for Seva’s never-ending encouragement.
We leave just before the end of the event, and my man gallantly opens the door of our car for me. “Your carriage, maestro .”
“You’re so silly,” I mumble, but my face heats, and I place my hand on his thigh when the vehicle climbs up the beautiful street, heading out of town.
I can’t imagine where I’d be now if I never met this man. Probably still working two dead-end jobs and seething in my hatred. But the person whom I used to blame for everything that went wrong with my life has turned it around, and now I’m a new man.
Not just because I live in Italy under a fake identity, but because happiness is no longer just a concept.
It’s become the essence of my existence, and I share it with him and our two cats.
Our car is small, built for the cobblestones and narrow alleyways, but its engine is powerful enough to drive us up the steep hills.
“Can you imagine? Four sold?” And it’s not even about the price. I’m not a known name, so it’s nothing too crazy, but for people to want to part with their hard earned money so they can have a piece of me? Insanity.
“I’m not surprised at all. I spotted your talent from that first look at your sketchbook, pet,” Seva tells me, leaving Taormina behind and heading farther inland, toward our sanctuary.
I relax into the seat, letting the stress of the day leave my body. “Are you ever sad that you left fame behind?” I squeeze his hand.
He lets out a soft chuckle. “I’m now wise enough to know that showing my face was the worst decision I ever made. Minus this one consequence named Victor, aka Vander,” he tells me, driving off the main road and through an olive grove.
It’s so peaceful here at night. I open the window to smell the sea. “Maybe I should have called myself ‘Consequence’. Would have been a dramatic pseudonym.”
“That would make you sound like a hangover,” Seva mutters and pinches me as we arrive at our gate. It starts opening, and soon enough we’re in the lush garden surrounding our little piece of paradise where we don’t have to worry about assassins.
The villa isn’t anything grand. Technically speaking it’s a barn conversion, but the previous owners made it into a fabulously functional, beautiful house, complete with a pool and vines climbing up one of the walls. It’s more than I could have ever asked for.
I groan. “No! It would have been dark and theatrical. Almost in the vein of Sevastyan ,” I say with dramatic flair and jazz hands.
“It’s literally my name,” he says and circles the car to let me out.
I giggle, tipsy from the wine I’ve had, and extend my hand for him to help me out as if I’m a princess. My knees are wobblier than I expected, so I’m glad he’s there. At this point I accept his fussing as a gesture of love.
“But it’s a good name, you gotta admit. Like an opera singer, or a—”
“Painter?” he deadpans, but I still spot the smirk on his handsome features.
“Yes! Could be a famous one with that name. He’d have a dark, mysterious past, and never show his face.”
“Sounds pretentious.”
The motion-activated lights switch on when he leads me onto the porch where we often lounge in the shade, or have our food. One of our cats, Matisse, cracks his eye open but doesn’t move from the edge of the rattan sofa. He’s so incredibly lazy.
The interior is very spacious, but not nearly as minimalist as Seva’s old home. There’s a warmth in the wood, the pillows, the blankets, and the colorful tiles on the floor.
“Sit. We need some real food,” Seva says, leading me to the furniture set.
I can’t contain my excitement. Four paintings sold. How incredible is that? Of course, Seva’s compliments mean the world to me, but the approval of others is still the sweetest honey for my starved ego.
“You’ll be cooking? ”
“I have everything ready, baby,” Sevastyan tells me from inside our kitchen. I sink into the cushions and let my hand drift to Matisse’s furry back. Moments later, my man returns with a board of antipasti, bread, and more wine.
“We could also have cake, but there was plenty at the event,” he adds, placing the offerings on the table.
Just as I’m about to reach for a piece of bruschetta, he slaps away my hand. “Wait, wait!” Seva lights two sparklers on the edges making me giggle with glee. “There we go. Congratulations on your first solo show.”
My heart melts and I pull him to the seat next to me.
Sadly for Matisse, it means he has to go, but such is the life of a cat.
“Thank you. I love you.” I try not to cry, but my eyes water anyway.
I never dreamed I’d have someone in my life who would cherish me this way.
Someone who wouldn’t see me as annoying, boring or disposable, and who makes a conscious choice every day to spend time with me and love me.
I couldn’t be happier.
“I love you too.”
The end