Becoming Mrs DeLuca novel Chapter 61

Blood kept dripping relentlessly onto Mile, and that damn dog eagerly lapped it up without hesitation. Furious beyond control, I grabbed the dog firmly by the scruff of its neck, stumbled toward the door, and flung it into the hallway. The dog landed with a startled yelp before it darted away into the shadows.

I looked down at my hands, slick and stained with my own blood, then shifted my gaze to the motionless form of my wife lying on the bed. Slowly, deliberately, I shut the door behind me, as if that could somehow contain the horror inside. A crimson handprint smeared the pristine white lacquered wood—a stark reminder of the violence that had just unfolded.

Turning back to the grim tableau, my eyes caught the crushed red roses scattered near Serena’s still figure. One of the maids had brought them as a gift for our sixth wedding anniversary. The roses, once vibrant, now lay wilted and broken, their deep scarlet petals matching the blood-soaked sheets and the pure white of her wedding dress. It was a desperate, futile gesture—a symbol of a marriage that was beyond repair, a painful testament to my own failure.

Seconds dragged by as I stood there, staring at my wife’s lifeless form. Even in death, she retained a haunting beauty. She had chosen to wear her wedding dress when she ended her life. It still fit her perfectly, hugging her slender frame as if she were still preparing for a ceremony that would never happen. The crystals adorning her bodice shimmered softly in the warm glow of the lamp, some flecked with blood, turning them into tiny rubies. They echoed the gemstones in her necklace. Her hair was curled just as she had worn it on the day we exchanged our vows. How long had she been planning this? How much pain had she carried in silence?

My hand trembled as I reached for my phone and dialed Father’s number. I rarely disturbed him after dinner; he and Mother usually spent their evenings watching classic films or playing backgammon now that he was retired. Their love had always been something I admired from afar—something I had longed for as a young man before I knew Serena, before I knew the bitter truth of our marriage.

“Adrian, don’t you have a dinner reservation with Serena tonight?” Father’s voice was cautious on the other end.

A dinner to parade our failed marriage in public, I thought bitterly. “Serena is dead,” I said flatly.

There was a stunned silence. “Can you say that again?”

“Serena is dead.”

“Adrian—”

“Someone needs to clean this mess up before the kids come home. Send a clean-up crew and inform Rico.”

I ended the call abruptly.

The mention of Rico ignited a fierce hatred inside me. He was the root of all this chaos. And yet, I had to keep up appearances, had to report to him because he was my boss. The irony was suffocating.

A crumpled sheet of paper lying on the bed beside Serena’s body caught my eye. I edged closer, my heart pounding. Death didn’t frighten me—not after all the lives I had taken or caused to be taken—but the thought of approaching my wife’s corpse filled me with revulsion. Her other arm, the one not dangling off the bed’s edge, lay crossed over her chest. The blood from her slit wrist had soaked through the fabric of her wedding dress. Her lifeless brown eyes stared accusingly at the ceiling, as if even in death she held me responsible. I closed her eyelids gently and picked up the letter with trembling fingers.

Her handwriting was elegant, flowing across expensive stationery. At first glance, it promised a love letter, but the words inside were anything but that.

[Part of me died on our wedding day.

You took everything from me. Every time you were inside me, I imagined it was Lorenzo. It was the only way to make your touch bearable. And then you took that away too. You stole the one thing I loved more than life itself.

I thought I hated you from the beginning, but now I understand what true hate means.

Halfway through the letter, my breath slowed as I absorbed her raw pain.

Every day since you killed Lorenzo, I searched for a way to destroy you. Then I realized if I killed Stefan and Sofia, it would break you. You love them as much as I loved Lorenzo.

I wanted to kill them to hurt you. I wanted to kill my own children to make you feel the agony I endure every day since his death. That’s how much I hate you, Adrian.

Part of me still wants to kill them. But today, standing over Sofia’s crib, I couldn’t do it.

Not because of you.

“I locked that damn dog in the storage room. It was covered in blood,” Damien said, breaking the silence.

I nodded absently but my focus drifted back to Serena. My wife had taken her own life because of me. I had been the final blow, but her parents had built the coffin long before.

“Take care of everything,” I said quietly. “I need to handle something.”

Father gripped my arm tightly. “Son, promise me you won’t do anything reckless?” Fear flickered in his eyes—a rare sight.

“I’m not going to kill myself if that’s what you think. That’s cowardice and a betrayal to those left behind.” I wrenched my arm free and stormed away.

Damien hurried after me. “Do you need my help?”

“No.”

I got into the car and sped off into the night.

Twenty minutes later, I stood at my in-laws’ front door. When they opened it, I raised my gun steadily. “We need to talk about Lorenzo and Serena.”

The next morning, their maid found them dead in their bedroom.

The official statement said they had shot themselves, unable to bear the loss of their son and daughter. But I knew better.