Becoming Mrs DeLuca novel Chapter 67

VALENTINA

“Is Daddy a bad man?”

I nearly fell off the ladder. For a heartbeat, I forgot how to breathe.

In the three weeks since his birthday, Stefan had barely spoken. He had only made small, hesitant words here and there, and now, on the morning before Christmas Eve, this was what came out of his mouth.

I steadied myself and hung the silver ornament on the top branch of the Christmas tree before climbing down the ladder. The pine filled the room with that rich, sharp scent I’d always loved, though right now it seemed too heavy.

Stefan sat cross–legged among the boxes of decorations I’d bought. I’d gotten new ones, because I couldn’t bring myself to use Serena’s old things. They belonged to a past best left untouched. Sofia sat a few feet away, happily pulling apart a strand of tinsel she’d found, her cheeks flushed from the effort.

I lowered myself beside Stefan. He was rolling a red ball back and forth between his palms, his small face serious. “Who told you that?” I asked gently.

His eyes stayed on the ornament, watching it spin.

“Mom.” His voice was so soft it nearly disappeared beneath the faint rustle of the tree.

The ache that bloomed in my chest was instant. “What did she say?”

“She said that daddy’s bad,” he murmured. “That he hurt Uncle Lorenzo and it made Mom sad.”

I didn’t answer right away. My mind scrambled to find the right words— something that wouldn’t crush the truth completely but wouldn’t let it wound him either.

I reached over and plucked a piece of tinsel from Sofia’s tiny fist before she decided to eat it. She protested with a loud squeal, but when I didn’t react, she blinked up at me and went quiet again.

Stefan finally looked up, his brown eyes searching mine, uncertain but trusting. That trust was a weight and a gift all at once. I had to choose my words carefully.

“Your uncle did something very wrong,” I said slowly. “He betrayed your daddy and ran away instead of facing what he’d done. That hurt your mom deeply. She was sad, and sometimes when people are very sad, they say things they don’t mean. Your dad isn’t bad, Stefan. He does everything he can to keep you and Sofia safe because he loves you.”

Stefan’s fingers tightened around the ornament and he frowned. “He didn’t hurt Mom?”

I hesitated, feeling my throat dry up. “No,” I whispered. The word trembled in the air between us- a truth bent just enough to protect him.

He studied me for a long second, as if deciding whether or not to believe me. Then, quietly, he asked, “He doesn’t hurt you?”

I smiled, brushing a hand over his hair. “No, sweetheart. He doesn’t.”

He was quiet after that, and I thought he had withdrawn back into his shell again, but when I tried to move away, he tugged at my hand. I sat back on the floor beside him. “Yes, Stefan?”

He opened his mouth and closed it a few times, like he wasn’t sure he wanted to talk.

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“Do you want to tell me something?” I asked in an encouraging voice.

Stefan nodded, looking at me with his big beautiful eyes.

“What is it?”

“It’s… secret.” He said quietly.

Oh I moved closer to him and bowed my head so I would give him the illusion that only I would be able to hear him. “What is it? I won’t tell anyone.”

His eyes looked past me, straight to the door. “It’s mommy.”

My heart sank to the pit of my stomach with a thud so loud, I was convinced even the neighbors would hear it. I turned to the door so fast, that I almost twisted my neck.

Of course, it was just the door. There was no one there. How could there be?

I patted Stefan’s head, frowning slightly. “What do you mean, honey?”

“Mommy’s here.”

He said it so quickly and went back to playing with the ornaments.

There was an unsettling feeling in my chest. But Stefan seemed to have completely moved on from the conversation. I placed a kiss on his head, feeling sad for him.

The poor child.

I would have to talk to Adrian about possibly finding someone for him to talk to. If Stefan was dreaming of his mother, then we had to find someone that could help him work through those feelings of grief.

Behind us, Sofia made another daring attempt to reach the tree, tiny fingers stretching toward the lowest branch. I scooped her up before disaster struck and placed her in Stefan’s lap.

“Will you keep an eye on her for me?”

He nodded solemnly, wrapping his arms around his sister as if she were the most fragile thing in the world. Her little head rested against his chest, content.

“You see?” I said softly, crouching beside them. “You protect Sofia. I protect you. And your dad… he protects all of us.”

Stefan didn’t answer, but his small hand brushed his sister’s hair, and I saw a small smile grace his lips.

After I was done decorating, the kids and I went into my paint room. It had been our routine over the last couple of weeks, and both children got brushes, watercolors, and paper so they could entertain themselves while I finished the painting I’d started for Adrian.

It was almost done. I wasn’t quite happy with the spray on the waves rolling onto the beach. They needed to appear more vivid. I wanted Adrian to smell the ocean air and feel the refreshing breeze when he saw it. He had a photo of the exact same view in our bedroom, but I hoped he’d love a canvas.

Milo sniffed at the door, but she kept running over the paper and through the paint pots, spreading colorful pawprints everywhere, so she wasn’t allowed inside anymore.

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apter 67

Stefan dragged the brush over the sheet, creating blue lines, as if he, too, was painting the ocean.

159 Vouchers

I put down my brush and walked over to him. He didn’t look up as I sank down beside him. Sofia hit the floor with her own paintbrush over and over again, splattering paint everywhere. My overalls and bare feet were already covered in a myriad of

colors.

Stefan had returned to his quiet self after our conversation this morning, pondering what I said. I wished I could glimpse

into his head.

“Your dad would love a painting of the ocean for Christmas. Why don’t you give it to him?”

Stefan dipped the brush into the blue paint and continued drawing jerky lines. “Okay,” was his soft reply.

“Nothing would make your dad happier than spending time with you and hearing your voice again.”

Kissing his temple, I rose to my feet and returned to my canvas.

We were hosting Christmas Eve dinner that year.

The house glowed with warm lights, the scent of roasted meat and cinnamon drifting through every room. I’d done my best to make it beautiful, but thankfully Sybil had taken over the kitchen hours earlier. Without her, I would’ve been a disaster of flour, nerves, and burnt side dishes.

By the time everyone arrived… Adrian’s parents and Gemma, who looked about ready to pop any minute, along with her family, the dining room was full of laughter and the kind of chaos that always comes with family gatherings.

Gemma sank into her chair with a groan, one hand resting on her round belly. “If this baby doesn’t come tonight, I’m starting Christmas without him,” she muttered, half serious.

I smiled and poured her a glass of water. “Maybe he’s waiting for Santa,” I teased, but the look she gave me said she was not in the mood for jokes.

The children were already making a mess of the living room – toy cars clattering against table legs, someone’s laughter echoing through the hall. Stefan sat quietly among them with Milo curled beside his chair. He wasn’t the loudest, but he didn’t seem left out. The others accepted his silence without question, which made me love them for it.

When we finally sat down for dinner, the table was almost too full. There was roasted lamb, potatoes with rosemary, pasta baked with cream and spinach, and more desserts than anyone could ever finish. The only thing missing was conversation about Serena. No one mentioned her, and I was grateful. Her ghost lingered in this house in too many ways already, in the furniture she’d chosen, the rooms she’d touched. Tonight, I wanted peace.

But peace never lasted long in this family.

Ernesto, Adrian’s father, cleared his throat after the first course, his sharp eyes flicking between us. “So,” he said, in that tone that meant trouble, “when are you going to bless us with another grandchild?”

I nearly inhaled a piece of asparagus.

Adrian’s fork paused midair.

Across the table, Stefan glanced between us with wide eyes, while Sofia squished a handful of carrots into orange pulp, blissfully unaware of the tension rising around her.

Gemma, bless her, leaned back and rubbed her belly. “You’ll have a new grandchild soon enough,” she said, smiling wryly. “Though if this little guy keeps me waiting much longer, I might have to start charging rent.”

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Ernesto waved a hand. “Of course, of course. But you-” he pointed his fork toward Adrian “-you should be thinking ahead. Two children are wonderful, but the family must grow.”

Adrian set his utensils down carefully. His jaw flexed once, then twice. I could almost feel the storm building in him, so I slid my hand under the table and rested it on his thigh in a silent plea. Not tonight.

“I have two young children.” Adrian finally said, his tone even. “That’s more than enough right now.”

“You should keep your young wife in mind,” Ernesto pressed, ignoring the warning edge in his son’s voice.

My stomach tightened. This was obviously not about me. It was about lineage, about blood, about what no one dared to say out loud. Ernesto was worried. He was worried about whether Stefan and Sofia were truly Adrian’s.

Before Adrian could snap, I forced a small smile and said, “I’m happy with what we have. Two children are more than enough for now.”

Adrian turned to me, his eyes softening for the briefest moment. His hand found mine and gave it a quick squeeze – gratitude, and something else.

“Now, perhaps,” Ernesto said, unfazed. “But in a few years-”

“Father.” Adrian cut in, his voice low but sharp as glass. “That’s none of your concern.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to cut. I stared at my plate, pretending to be fascinated by the asparagus I’d nearly choked on. Across the table, Gemma cleared her throat and leaned toward me with a bright smile – a lifeline if I ever

saw one.

“I heard you paint,” she said quickly.

Relief flooded through me. “I do,” I said, maybe too eagerly. “Mostly small pieces. Landscapes. It’s something to fill the quiet and pass time.”

Gemma smiled warmly. “Then you’ll have to paint one for the nursery. Maybe it’ll help the baby decide to come out.”

The table erupted in soft laughter, even Ernesto cracked a small smile, and the tension finally broke.

For the rest of dinner, I kept my hand in Adrian ‘s beneath the table, feeling the slow ease of his breathing return.