Gregory Romero is covered in his own artwork, tattoos that run up and down his arms and spot his chest, back and stomach.

But the smallest one - three dots near the corner of his left eye - tells his story best.

"It represents Mi Vida Loca," Romero said.

My crazy life.

A life that has taken a sharp turn.

Troubled teen. Convicted killer. Gang member.

But now, Romero says, a life given to God.

He's 10 years into a double-life sentence without the possibility of parole for killing Terrance Mayo and Mayo's pregnant girlfriend, Rachelle Peterson, in 1995 in Denver.

Authorities called him the triggerman in a murder plan hatched by Mayo's jilted ex-girlfriend, 16-year-old Cheryl Armstrong. Prosecutors told jurors that Armstrong persuaded her friend Romero by saying Mayo had bad-mouthed him.

After the shooting, prosecutors said, Romero bragged about how Mayo lay shaking on the floor after he was shot four times. Thirteen weeks pregnant, Peterson, curled up under a blanket, was hit by 10 bullets.

Romero will not talk about the crime because his case is on appeal. His lawyers contended that the teen was drunk and not part of the killing.

But the jury didn't buy it. Romero was convicted of first-degree murder.

Romero, at 17, had never been away from home. He was sent to the place he is likely to call home for the rest of his life - prison.

"I was really scared," Romero said. "I remember sitting in that cell, crying all night long. Not knowing what to do. Not knowing if I was ever going to get home again."

He spent time at Limon, then the Colorado State Penitentiary after guards found a shank under his mattress. Today he is in the Fremont Correctional Facility in Canon City.

"When you come to prison with a life sentence, you have nothing to work for," Romero said. "You have nothing to look forward to, especially as a juvenile - you have your whole life ahead of you. You know that saying when you're a kid, 'What do you want to be when you grow up?' Well, you've got to ask yourself that same question when you come to the joint, except now your options are limited. You can either turn to gangs, turn to drugs or you can turn to the Lord."

Romero tried all three.

Knowing he wasn't going home to his family, Romero turned to what he figured was the next best thing: a gang.

He said he'd never been involved in a gang on the outside, but court testimony suggests otherwise. During a preliminary hearing for Romero and his three co-defendants, prosecutors characterized the shooting as gang-related.

Either way, Romero eased into prison gang life. He attacked rivals and handled drug deals at the request of senior gang members. Soon, he was using his prison money to pay for his own drugs, mostly heroin.

"It kinda got to a point where that's the way I was coping with things," he said. "I had a gang and that was my family. And I had drugs and that was my freedom."

Then Romero met Rose Herrera, a woman on the outside who has spent much of her adult life working in a private reconciliation program for offenders and victims.

In her letters to him, Herrera, who is in her 50s, talked about God. Romero started going to church with a fellow gang member. He listened closely when the chaplain preached about forgiveness.

"It took me a long time to forgive myself for everything that happened," he said. "And I've heard sermons where they've taught us that before you're able to forgive others, you have to first be able to forgive yourself. And that was a hard step for me."

The next hard step was leaving the gang. Romero and his churchgoing gang brother broke the news to the gang together. Later they were baptized as Christians together.

All the while, he confided in Herrera, telling her about gang life, about life on the outside, about his daughter, Jade, whom he never saw.

After six months, Herrera and Romero said they were in love. She'd visit him in prison every weekend. They'd pray and read the Bible together. Soon they were engaged.

His ring was engraved with: Always and Forever.

Hers: True Love Waits.

"He was a hard-core (gang) leader, and now he's a leader of God," Herrera said. "I don't think I would be this happy with anyone else."

Both hope he'll be set free one day.

But if the conviction stands, Romero said, he'll be "all right."

"I'll know it's because God wants me behind bars to help the other young people coming in," he said. "I've already touched a few lives with my story and my testimony. Hopefully, I will be able to touch more."

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