16-Year-Old Girl Becomes Richest Widow: The Mysterious Deaths of 8 Husbands

Do you believe in bad luck? Or do you believe in ruthlessly calculated plans?

Our story today is about Elena Derios, a woman living in 18th-century Mexico, who became a widow eight times. Eight wealthy husbands, eight mysterious deaths, and eight massive inheritances turned her into the most powerful woman in the region.

The question that has gone unanswered for 200 years is: Was Elena ultimately a victim of a tragic fate, or a genius murderer with a perfect plan? But before we unravel this terrifying case, I have an important favor to ask of you.

If you are also fascinated by stories that mainstream history wants to forget, please subscribe to our channel and hit the notification bell so you don’t miss any cases. Like this video if you dare to learn the full truth about Elena Derios, and let me know in the comments: which city and country are you listening from? We are delighted to know we have courageous audiences around the world, ready to explore the darkest corners of the past.

Now, prepare yourself. We are about to find out why the name Elena Derios is still whispered about in a region of Mexico more than 200 years after her death.

If you ever have the chance, try visiting the dusty archives of the old parishes in Mexico. There, amidst pages yellowed by time, lie countless hidden stories. And in an old registry in the small town of Santa Clara del Valle, dating back to the 18th century—a book people still whisper about—the name Elena Derios appears again and again. But not in the baptismal records; rather, in the marriage registry, and immediately followed by the death registry.

Elena is recorded as a widow not once, but eight times. Eight weddings, eight funerals, and eight massive inheritances combined to make her the wealthiest woman in the entire region.

The thing that the authorities of that time, no matter how hard they tried, could never prove was whether Elena Derios was the unhappiest woman on earth or the most coldly calculating murderer to ever exist in the land of New Spain.

To understand this, we must go back to the setting of our story: Santa Clara del Valle in the 1760s. This was the era known as the peak of the Spanish Empire. And this Guanajuato region was, without exaggeration, the silver mine of the world. Wealth and riches dug up from the earth flowed here like streams. But this wealth was strange. It wasn’t for everyone.

In Santa Clara, the contrast between rich and poor was stark. You could see magnificent two-story mansions with stone-paved courtyards and cooling pink sandstone fountains. Those were the homes of mine owners and great merchants. But right next door, separated only by a few muddy streets, were dilapidated adobe huts, hot as furnaces.

That was where the miners and laborers lived. They lived cramped together, sometimes sharing space with chickens and pigs. The atmosphere in Santa Clara reeked of both thick opportunity and desperation. Everyone came here with dreams of changing their lives, but most were crushed by that harsh wheel.

It was into this boiling, stifling atmosphere that Elena Derios arrived in 1762. She was only 16 years old, traveling with her widowed aunt. They had journeyed all the way from Michoacán with the hope of opening a small bakery—just a humble life to scrape by. But from the moment that girl stepped down from the carriage, the whole town seemed to hold its breath.

Elena was beautiful—extraordinarily so. Her hair was black as ebony, always elaborately piled high to reveal a proud, long neck. And most striking were her eyes. People said her eyes were green, a rare, clear, and deep green like the emeralds occasionally found in the mines.

In a town full of sweat, dust, and mostly rough men, such beauty was like a gem dropped into a mud puddle. But if you think beauty was her only weapon, you are sorely mistaken. What truly made Elena different—what made her, I must be honest, dangerous—lay inside. Elena Derios was unlike the vast majority of women of her time: She could read and write fluently.

She had learned these skills from the nuns in Valladolid. You have to understand, in the 18th century, in a colonial society, a woman who knew letters and math was not just rare; it was almost a superpower. It gave her the ability to see through things others could not.

I always wonder what Elena thought when she was 16, standing in the Santa Clara square, looking around. She surely saw the contrast.

She saw the wives of the mine owners, dripping in heavy jewelry, living in silk and velvet, even though they might not even know how to sign their own names. And then she looked at her aunt, back bent over the bakery oven from dawn till dusk, trying to earn every spare copper coin. I believe that right then, a deep sense of injustice sprouted in this young girl.

She was beautiful, she was intelligent—why should she accept a life of misery and poverty? She certainly did not want to become her aunt: a poor widow, gradually forgotten. And the opportunity was right before her eyes.

Santa Clara was a town thirsty for women; men here were countless. They worked hard, they made money, and they craved a home, a wife—a young, beautiful, and smart wife like Elena.

She wasn’t just a wife; she was a symbol of status. Immediately, invitations began to arrive. Wealthy families invited her to Sunday tea parties. Men started loitering in front of the bakery. But Elena didn’t rush. She observed. She listened. She used her intelligence to analyze.

She quickly realized there was a middle class here. They were merchants, mule train owners transporting goods, mine managers. They were rich enough to live comfortably, but they weren’t nobility. They didn’t have big, influential families back in Mexico City. They were self-made men, hardworking, and perhaps a bit lonely.

They were the perfect targets. At the time, no one realized this. They only saw a beautiful, devout young girl looking for a good husband. But I believe that from those very first days, as those green eyes surveyed the town, Elena Derios was not looking for love.

She was looking for a ladder. And she began to weave an invisible web. The first net would soon be cast.

And you know what? She didn’t have to wait long. Among the many men eyeing the most beautiful girl in Santa Clara, one stood out. His name was Juan Soto, 32 years old, 15 years Elena’s senior. He was a textile merchant, belonging to exactly the class I mentioned: self-made, wealthy, reputable, but not noble.

Juan was a good man, hardworking, but perhaps he had been lonely for too long. When he saw Elena, he didn’t see a calculating 16-year-old. He saw an angel with green eyes. He saw the perfect wife to show off to the town, someone to bear him children and watch over his assets.

On April 15, 1763, just a year after she arrived in Santa Clara, a lavish wedding took place. It was the most talked-about social event of the year. Elena, in an imported navy blue silk dress, looked radiant, beautiful, and honestly, incredibly innocent. Everyone was happy for Juan Soto.

He had acquired a precious gem. They moved into a spacious two-story house right on the main road leading to the square. Those first few months were truly a perfect picture. Juan loved his young wife to the point of infatuation. Returning from trading trips to Mexico City, he filled the house with gifts: silk shawls, chocolates, finely carved silver jewelry.

He loved blindly, trusting completely. And Elena? She played the perfect wife. The house was always spotless, meals always hot. She managed the household efficiently, even helping Juan with the accounting books. She participated in all church charity activities, making every woman in town admire her.

But you know, behind perfection, there is always something else. While Juan was drowning in happiness, I always wonder what Elena was thinking. I believe those first months were not a honeymoon; they were a research phase.

She started asking questions that initially sounded very ordinary. “Juan dear, how much cash are you carrying on this trip? Is the route safe? Which inns do you usually stop at? Are those partners in Mexico City trustworthy? What are their names?”

Juan, in his love-drunk state, found these questions adorable—his wife cared about his work! He proudly told her everything. He bragged about secret routes, hidden stashes of money, business deals. Without a shred of defense, he handed his entire treasure map to Elena.

At the same time, Elena began visiting a certain place more frequently: the pharmacy of Don Mateo, the old pharmacist I mentioned.

Don Mateo was a careful man, a true intellectual. He didn’t just sell medicine; he studied medicine and recorded everything. Elena came complaining of very vague symptoms. “I have headaches often, Don Mateo. Lately, I have trouble sleeping; perhaps it’s the climate here. My stomach hasn’t been settling well recently.”

Don Mateo, with his meticulousness, noted: Mrs. Soto, headaches, insomnia. He gave her some calming herbs, chamomile tea. But then, between those purchases, Elena started asking strange questions.

“Sir, that white powder in that jar up there?” She pointed to a glass jar on a high shelf. “What is it used for?”

Don Mateo frowned. “That is Arsenic, madam. Used to kill rats. Very toxic.”

“Oh,” Elena smiled. “How dangerous. How much would be dangerous, sir?”

Don Mateo felt a bit odd, but he let it pass. A week later, she asked again, “If a person were poisoned, say by food, what would the symptoms be?”

The old pharmacist started to take notice, but then he told himself, Surely the young mistress is just curious. Who would suspect a 17-year-old angel, beautiful and devout like that?

And then it happened. On November 23, 1763, just seven months after the wedding, Juan Soto returned from a trading trip. A few weeks prior, he had left completely healthy. But when he stepped off the mule cart, he staggered, his face flushed, sweat pouring down. He had a high fever, vomited incessantly, and clutched his stomach screaming, saying it felt like someone was burning him from the inside with fire.

Immediately, Elena appeared, and once again she was the image of devotion. The whole town witnessed it. Elena didn’t sleep a second; she stayed up all night sitting by her husband’s bed, using cool towels to wipe his sweat. She hand-fed him every spoonful of porridge, brewed every cup of herbal tea. Neighbors who visited were moved to tears. “What a filial wife, poor thing.”

They saw her kneeling in the family’s small chapel, eyes red, sobbing, praying for Juan’s soul. They just didn’t know that perhaps in those herbal teas, in those harmless bowls of thin porridge, what she put in wasn’t just love and worry.

Don Mateo was called in. The old pharmacist was truly confused. He looked at Juan writhing on the bed, delirious, convulsing, demanding water constantly but vomiting immediately after drinking. These symptoms… they didn’t look like malaria, didn’t look like dysentery. It felt like a chill running down Don Mateo’s spine. He froze. He remembered Elena’s questions.

He remembered the jar of arsenic on the high shelf. But did he dare speak out? Accuse a wife crying her heart out by her husband’s bed? Accuse the woman loved by the whole town? He had no proof, only suspicion.

Five days. Juan Soto writhed in extreme agony for five days. And at dawn on November 28, he took his last breath. The funeral was unprecedentedly large; all of Santa Clara turned out to see off the kind merchant.

Elena, in jet-black mourning clothes, walked behind the coffin, her face pained but admirably resilient. She accepted condolences with a dignity that commanded respect. Immediately after, as required by law, the assets were inventoried: the two-story house, a cash sum of nearly 3,000 silver pesos, all remaining goods in the warehouse, and most importantly, the entire business network, relationships, and trade routes Juan had spent a lifetime building.

All of it now belonged to the 17-year-old widow, Elena Derios.

While the town looked at her with sympathetic eyes, Don Mateo sat alone in his pharmacy. He flipped through his logbook. He began cross-referencing the dates Elena came to buy medicine, her questions, and Juan’s symptoms. A terrifying coincidence.

He decided to try speaking to the Mayor, Don Felix. But Don Felix, who also did business with Juan, dismissed it. “You’re old, Mateo. You see conspiracies everywhere. Juan died of malignant malaria on the road. It’s common. Don’t bother that poor widow.” Don Mateo fell silent, but he never stopped suspecting. He felt this was only the beginning.

You think after her husband died, Elena would stop? Would she be miserable, collapse, hide in the house crying the days away? Oh no, Elena didn’t do things like a normal person. She began a mourning period, but a very strategic one.

For the first six months after Juan died, the whole town of Santa Clara saw her at church every day. She wore black from head to toe, her face always sorrowful but exuding a strange, resilient dignity. She used Juan’s money—naturally—to donate to the church and help the poor. She participated in every charity activity. The town loved and sympathized with her even more.

They looked at her and thought: A young woman, newly widowed, yet so kind and strong. They didn’t know that for Elena, the church wasn’t just a place to pray; it was the best place to observe. I believe that while bowing her head to recite prayers, those green eyes never rested. She was scanning the crowd. She was listening to stories. She was hunting.

She had capital. She had experience. Now she needed a bigger target, a higher rung on the ladder. And she found him: Carlos Paz.

Carlos was 40 years old, a widower. He wasn’t a sedentary merchant like Juan. Carlos was an Arriero—a mule train owner—one of the toughest and most successful men in the region. You have to understand, back then, transport was the lifeblood of the economy. Carlos ran a massive mule fleet, transporting raw silver from mines to refineries, then carrying goods back and forth to Pacific ports. A lucrative business, but one requiring extremely tight management.

Carlos was a practical man. He had been a widower for two years and wasn’t looking for a beautiful doll just for display. He needed a woman who could manage affairs, someone who could help him with the books and coordinate trips.

And then he saw Elena, the Widow Soto. What did he see? He saw a young, beautiful woman, and most importantly, one who had proven her ability to manage an entire textile estate after her husband died. She could read, write, and calculate. She was the perfect candidate.

The courtship happened quickly. Carlos was practical, and Elena… Elena was always ready. The wedding took place on October 8, 1764, exactly 11 months after Juan’s death. See? Still within a mourning period, but long enough that people couldn’t gossip.

The ceremony this time was more modest; after all, both had been married before. They moved into a much larger house on the outskirts, near where Carlos kept his mule stables and warehouses. And the old script began to repeat itself. But this time, it was upgraded.

Elena once again became the perfect wife. She threw herself into Carlos’s work like a whirlwind. The accounting books had never been so clear and organized. Shipments were coordinated precisely, relationships with mine owners tightened, and Carlos’s revenue soared. He happily thought he had married a gold mine. He didn’t know he was living with a gravedigger.

This time, Elena learned from Juan’s death. She knew a sudden, violent death would attract attention. Especially with the old pharmacist Don Mateo still there, silently watching her. She needed something slower, more discreet.

Visits to Don Mateo’s pharmacy resumed, still with vague symptoms. But this time she didn’t ask much about arsenic. She asked about herbs, about roots used to treat “blood and energy.”

“I heard there is this type of root,” she said, “that if taken, makes one tired and lethargic, but doesn’t kill immediately. Is that right, sir?”

Don Mateo started to feel a chill on his neck. He answered evasively, but he knew he couldn’t stop her from finding what she wanted.

In May 1765, Carlos returned from a long trip. He felt a bit tired—just ordinary fatigue. Elena immediately cared for him devotedly. “Drink this soup, dear. I simmered it all night to restore your strength.”

Carlos’s health began a strange cycle. He felt a bit better when he was away working, eating on the road. But whenever he came home and ate the nourishing meals cooked by his wife’s own hands, he grew weaker. Nausea, constant headaches, a heavy body. He withered away gradually. No one suspected anything. People just thought he was overworked, suffering from the “traveler’s exhaustion.”

The death of Carlos Paz came on June 15, 1765. It lasted three months—a slow, painful death, but one that looked very natural. The funeral took place again. Elena cried uncontrollably again. And this time, she inherited the entire mule fleet, warehouses, and silver transport network.

Do you see her plan clearly now? From Juan, she got textiles and goods. From Carlos, she got the means of transport. She was building an empire, step by step, on top of graves.

Just three months after Carlos’s funeral, Elena—now a widow wealthy beyond measure—began reorganizing the business. And in that process, she “accidentally” met Miguel Luna.

Miguel was 35, a widower, and most importantly: a mine owner. He owned shares in two of the most profitable silver veins in the area. Elena had the goods, she had the transport. Now she needed the source.

The third wedding took place in February 1766, only eight months after Carlos’s death. This time, the town stopped whispering; they started gossiping openly. “That girl,” they said, “why is her luck so heavy? Whoever she marries dies.” People started calling her the “Black Widow.”

But Elena knew exactly how to extinguish those rumors. She didn’t use words; she used money and power. She knew Don Mateo was suspicious, and she knew Mayor Don Felix—the one who dismissed Don Mateo—was the key.

She began visiting him frequently. Not to report crimes or complain, but to donate. “Mr. Mayor, I want to support the town in rebuilding the church dome.” “Mr. Mayor, here is a small gift.” “Could you help me review these inheritance papers?”

Visits for legal advice gradually turned into private evenings. Don Felix, the head of the law in Santa Clara, was now not only persuaded by money but enchanted by this young, beautiful, wealthy, and overly generous woman. Elena had turned the town’s only legal shield into her personal bodyguard.

And with the Mayor’s protection, Miguel Luna’s fate was sealed. How long did he last? One year and four months. On June 18, 1767, Miguel died.

The script was identical: strange illness, devoted wife caring for him, gradual withering, and passing away in the loving arms of his young wife.

By this point, Don Mateo was completely in despair. He knew. He knew exactly what was happening. He had recorded the symptoms of all three men. They were identical. But what could he do? Accuse the wealthiest woman in the region? Accuse the Mayor’s mistress? He would be thrown in jail for slander immediately.

Elena, in five short years, went from a 16-year-old girl with nothing, not a single coin, to owning Juan’s textile empire, Carlos’s transport network, and Miguel’s silver mine shares. She had money, she had power, she had the protection of the authorities. She had perfected the method of murder and the strategy of concealing crimes.

But you know what? Her ambition didn’t stop there. Santa Clara had become too small. By 1768, Elena Derios was only 22 years old, but she had truly become the uncrowned queen of Santa Clara del Valle.

Think about it. She had everything. Money? She could buy this whole town if she wanted. Power? Mayor Don Felix, her protector, was practically a regular dinner guest at her house every week. She controlled the textile industry, the transport industry, and the raw silver supply. Economically, Elena was Santa Clara.

But do you know the problem with people who have bottomless ambition? It is that they never, ever feel it is enough.

Santa Clara, to Elena now, was no longer a big stage. It was a stagnant pond. She had conquered it too easily. And there was another problem: the name “Black Widow.” It was no longer a whisper. It had almost become a curse. Even though no one dared say it to her face, everyone still bowed to her on the street, still smiled, but behind those eyes was fear.

Elena knew she couldn’t stay here forever. She needed a new environment, a bigger playground, where her past would be buried by distance. And she began looking for the next target.

This time, her target wasn’t just money; she had too much money. She was looking for something that commercial money—her “new money”—could not buy immediately. That was social status and land. She wanted to be part of the landed aristocracy. The old families who had owned land for hundreds of years.

And the perfect target appeared: Pedro Diaz.

Pedro was a true Hacendado (landowner). He didn’t get rich from silver mines or trade. His family had owned this land for generations. He was “Old Money,” rural nobility. Pedro had become a widower in middle age and was managing a massive hacienda named San Raphael alone. This ranch spanned thousands of hectares, growing corn and beans, raising livestock, with hundreds of workers and tenant farmers dependent on it.

To approach a man like Pedro Diaz, Elena couldn’t use the old tricks. She couldn’t play the innocent girl like with Juan, or the capable housewife like with Carlos. She had to appear in a different capacity. She approached Pedro as a business partner, a powerful businesswoman.

They met at a church party—sponsored by Elena, of course. She didn’t talk about the weather; she talked about business.

“Mr. Diaz,” she said, her tone just humble enough but full of confidence. “I hear your hacienda is having difficulty transporting corn to the mines in Zacatecas.”

Pedro was stunned. How did she know?

Elena smiled. “My mule trains, Carlos’s assets, can handle that. And my mines, Miguel’s assets, also need a stable supply of corn to feed the miners. We can help each other.”

Pedro Diaz, a man who had only known land and livestock all his life, was suddenly captivated. He had never met a woman like this: beautiful but frighteningly sharp. She didn’t just understand business; she seemed to understand his work better than he did. The business collaboration quickly turned into dinner dates, and then it turned into a marriage proposal.

Pedro thought that by marrying Elena, he would have an entire commercial empire backing his hacienda. He didn’t know he was inviting a wolf into his house.

The fourth wedding was held in November 1768. It was the most lavish and magnificent event Santa Clara had ever witnessed. Pedro wanted the world to know that he, a landowner, had married the richest and most powerful woman in the region.

Elena was now the Mistress Diaz, moving to live at the San Raphael Hacienda. And this is where we see how power changed her. Becoming the mistress of a vast estate, she no longer just managed money. She managed the lives of hundreds of people. She inspected the fields on horseback. She gave orders to the foremen. She decided the harvests. She set the rules for the tenant farmers’ school. Absolute power.

And with that power, her methods became more sophisticated. Elena realized she couldn’t keep relying on Don Mateo and his tiny pharmacy. She needed to control her own supply of weapons. And where better than right at San Raphael? The hacienda’s garden had every kind of herb. Those used for healing, and naturally, those used for killing.

She began to experiment. She read every book on herbalism she could find. And here is the most terrifying detail: She began exchanging letters with a nun in Queretaro, someone considered a leading expert in herbal medicine in New Spain. Their letters are still preserved. On the surface, they only spoke of faith, of using herbs for charity to heal the poor. But if you read carefully, interspersed between prayers were chillingly detailed questions.

“Mother,” Elena wrote, “there is this type of root… if used in small doses it helps sedate, but if used in large doses, the symptoms would look like heart disease, correct?”

Elena was upgrading her arsenal. She no longer used crude arsenic. She was looking for something fast, strong, and most importantly, something that looked exactly like a natural accident. And she found it.

Pedro Diaz was a healthy man, used to outdoor labor. Would he die of a lingering illness, bedridden for months? No. That wouldn’t make sense. Such a death wouldn’t fit his constitution. Elena knew that, so she prepared a different script.

May 22, 1769, nearly a year after the wedding. It was a scorching summer day. Pedro Diaz was out in the fields, personally supervising the corn harvest. He was shouting, directing the tenant farmers. Suddenly, under the harsh midday sun, he stopped. He clutched his chest, his face suddenly turning purple. He staggered, trying to breathe.

The workers ran to him in panic. They saw their master collapse to the ground, his body convulsing violently. Just minutes later, before anyone could do anything, he stopped breathing.

Elena ran out from the big house. She wailed miserably—a scene of extreme agony. She hugged her husband’s still-warm body, screaming his name.

A new doctor, who had just moved to the area and naturally hadn’t heard of the Black Widow, was called. He examined the tragedy superficially. He concluded: “He overworked himself under the harsh sun. A sudden heart attack, heat stroke. Clearly death by natural causes.” Perfectly logical.

No one suspected a thing. The funeral was held solemnly, honoring the respectable landowner who died working hard.

And so, Elena Derios, at age 23, now officially owned everything. She had the textile company, the transport fleet, the silver mine shares, and now she owned thousands of hectares of fertile land. She was a true empire.

I always visualize this scene: A few weeks after the funeral, Elena standing on the balcony of the San Raphael Hacienda, looking down at the vast valley belonging to her. The wind blowing through her black hair. But she didn’t feel satisfied. She realized that even with all this wealth, she was still trapped.

In Santa Clara, she would forever be the Black Widow. She would forever be the suspect.

Mayor Don Felix, her protector, had also just passed away due to old age—a death which, I bet, perhaps wasn’t very natural either. Her layer of protection was gone. Santa Clara had given her wealth, but it couldn’t give her what she truly craved: recognition from high society. She wanted the true nobility, the aristocracy in the capital, to bow before her.

And there was only one place that could do that: Mexico City.

Elena liquidated some assets in Santa Clara, converting everything into gold and gemstones. She packed her colossal fortune and left the small town that had created this monster, heading straight for the capital. She was ready for a bigger stage.

And so, Elena Derios, a 23-year-old widow, unimaginably rich, set foot in Mexico City.

You have to understand, this wasn’t Santa Clara. Santa Clara was a mining town—rich, but provincial. Mexico City was the capital of an entire Viceroyalty. It was the center of power, of culture, of true nobility. This was the grand stage Elena had always yearned for.

And how did she enter it? She didn’t barge into high society by flashing money. No. Elena was too smart for that. She knew that her “new money”—money stained with mine dust and mule sweat—would be looked down upon by the “old money” aristocracy in the capital. She needed a different strategy.

She bought a magnificent mansion, not in the commercial district, but right near the main plaza, close to where officials and nobles lived. And she started doing something no one expected. She opened Tertulias—essentially literary salons.

She used the very weapon she always had: intelligence and education. She invited poets, philosophers, scholars, and naturally, high-ranking court officials to her home. They came not for her money, but to debate literature, philosophy, and to admire a young, beautiful, wealthy woman who could quote classical authors flawlessly.

Do you see her sophistication? She didn’t try to join their world. She created her own world and let them come to her. The intellectuals and nobles of the capital were curious—who wouldn’t be curious about a young, incredibly rich widow who was so brilliant?

And among the powerful men drawn into that intellectual vortex was Arturo Uro Marin.

Arturo was not a merchant or a landowner. He was a lawyer, but not an ordinary one. He was a lawyer for the Real Audiencia (Royal Court). This was the highest judicial body in the colony, second only to the King in Spain. This was Elena’s fifth target.

This courtship was unlike any before. It was a battle of wits. They talked about Roman law, about the philosophy of government. Arturo, a man who had lived his whole life with books and rules, was completely conquered. He had never met a female mind so sharp.

The fifth marriage took place on May 16, 1770. It was Elena’s definitive entry into the most elite upper class. She was now the wife of one of the most legally powerful men in New Spain.

And I have to be honest with you, I don’t believe Elena loved Arturo. I believe she married him for a very specific reason: Knowledge.

Remember the rumors in Santa Clara? The name “Black Widow”? Elena knew the past could catch up with her. She had money, she had land. What she lacked was an understanding of the very system that could destroy her. I am certain that during the short five months of that marriage, Elena wasn’t just a wife; she was a student.

Their mansion had a massive library with over 1,000 titles. I bet that while Arturo slept, Elena stayed up all night, devouring every law book. She learned about inheritance law, legal proceedings, evidence, and most importantly, criminal investigations. She was learning how to become the perfect criminal.

And when she had learned enough, Arturo Marin was no longer necessary.

Also in the capital, Elena gained access to a new arsenal. No more crude arsenic or wild roots. Mexico City had secret pharmacies, alchemists, compounds imported from Europe and Asia—sophisticated poisons, colorless, odorless, and almost undetectable.

The death of Arturo Uro Marin came very quickly, just five months into the marriage. On September 9, 1770, he passed away from a mysterious illness that doctors diagnosed as “brain fever,” possibly meningitis caused by toxins.

Only three days bedridden. Still the old script: devoted wife caring for him, crying her eyes out. But this time it was too fast. However, this was the capital. The death of a Royal Court lawyer was no joke. The Viceroy’s administration immediately ordered an investigation. They interrogated servants and doctors, but they found nothing.

Elena, with her newly acquired legal knowledge, had covered every track perfectly. The investigation hit a dead end. For the first time, the name Elena Derios appeared in the official records of the Viceroy’s government attached to a suspicious death. But she still escaped. And naturally, she inherited Arturo’s entire fortune, including his priceless legal library and his high-level political connections.

Now, what did she have? Money, land, legal knowledge, and political connections. You think she would stop? There was still one more rung on the ladder.

Target number six: Victor Roca.

If Arturo was political power, Victor was ultimate economic power. He was an importer. But not just an importer; he owned his own ships. He had trade routes directly with Spain, with islands in the Caribbean, and even with the Philippines. He was the connector between New Spain and the rest of the world. He was the pinnacle of wealth.

The sixth marriage in May 1771 was truly Elena’s peak. The wedding was held at the Metropolitan Cathedral, attended by the most prestigious families. Elena wore a silk dress imported from Paris, wearing diamonds from Brazil. Beside Victor, Elena was no longer just a wealthy widow; she was a force. She participated in international trade decisions. She had direct access to Viceroys. Her words carried weight; her influence stretched from Asia to Europe.

But perhaps it was right at this moment, when Elena had reached absolute heights, that she made her first mistake—a fatal one. People call it Hubris—arrogance. Perhaps she was too confident in her intelligence. Perhaps she was too used to everything going according to plan. Perhaps she felt invincible.

The death of Victor Roca on November 15, 1771… it was too obvious. I don’t know what she was thinking. Maybe she used the old method again. Maybe she was careless with the dosage.

But the symptoms Victor showed before dying were frighteningly similar to those of her five previous husbands. Severe abdominal pain, vomiting, convulsions. And this time, she wasn’t in Santa Clara where she could manipulate the Mayor. She wasn’t facing a vague medical inquiry like with Arturo’s death. She was in the middle of a mansion full of servants, full of Victor’s business partners. And they saw. They testified to what they saw.

More importantly, Victor’s family… they weren’t like the widows or provincial relatives of the past. They were international merchants. They had real power, connections all the way to Spain. They did not accept a mysterious death.

A scandal erupted. It was no longer a whisper. It was a roar across the capital. “Black Widow.” That name rose again. And this time, it was printed in newsletters, discussed in every noble salon.

An official, serious investigation was ordered directly from the Viceroy’s office.

They didn’t just investigate Victor’s death; they started reopening Arturo’s death. And then they sent letters to Santa Clara, requesting files on the first four deaths. Elena, with all her intelligence and legal knowledge, realized one thing: She had lost this chess match. She couldn’t beat an entire government machine.

For the first time in her criminal career, Elena Derios had to run. She gathered everything as fast as she could. Gold, gems, critical documents. She abandoned the mansion, abandoned her status, abandoned the dream of conquering the capital. She fled, returning to the only place she thought she could still control. She retreated. Back to Santa Clara del Valle.

But she didn’t know that this time, she wasn’t fleeing alone. The hounds of the law had caught the scent. And they were right on her heels.

You know, a wounded beast, cornered, is always the most dangerous beast. And Elena Derios, when she returned to Santa Clara del Valle, was exactly that. She returned not as a failure, but as a queen temporarily retreating to her fortress.

She brought with her a fortune in gold and gems enough to live lavishly for the rest of her life. But you and I both know Elena never needed just “enough.” She needed safety. She needed control.

And the moment she set foot back in Santa Clara, she realized her fortress had crumbled. The first news she received: Don Felix, the old Mayor, her lover and protector during the first schemes, was dead. Died of old age. People said so—a death that came at a very convenient time, perhaps a death even Elena hadn’t anticipated.

And the person replacing him wasn’t some local official easily bribed. No. This time, the Viceroy government in the capital wasn’t joking. They had sent one of their own: a special investigator, a high-ranking official, young, ambitious, and famous for his integrity. His name was Don Luis Vega, 35 years old, single.

And do you know what his first mission was upon arriving in Santa Clara? Not managing the town, but investigating Elena Derios.

Don Luis didn’t come empty-handed. He brought a leather briefcase, and inside was the entire file. The file on the death of Victor Roca (Husband #6). The file on the death of Arturo Marin (Husband #5).

And do you know the first thing he did when he arrived in town? He went straight to Don Mateo’s pharmacy. Imagine the face of the old pharmacist. After all those years, after so many desperate attempts to warn people, finally, someone was willing to listen.

Don Mateo, now with one foot in the grave, tremblingly pulled out his tattered old notebook from a chest. The notebook recorded every symptom of Juan Soto (Husband #1), Carlos Paz (Husband #2), Miguel Luna (Husband #3). Don Luis Vega sat there, cross-referencing files from the capital with the old pharmacist’s notebook. And for the first time, the full picture emerged. Six deaths. One pattern. One woman.

Elena knew she was hanging by a thread. She couldn’t bribe Don Luis. She couldn’t use local power to intimidate him. She couldn’t run anywhere else; all roads were monitored. She had only one weapon left. The weapon that helped her get everything in the beginning. Herself.

And Elena decided to make the boldest, most reckless, and honestly, craziest move of her entire life. She decided to seduce the very man investigating her.

If she could turn Don Luis Vega, the investigator, into Husband Number Seven, everything would end. The investigation would be buried, the files sealed, and she would be absolutely safe—protected by the law itself. It was an “all-in” bet.

The plan began. She was no longer the powerful Queen Elena. She reverted to her original image: a pitiful young widow, falsely accused, seeking peace. She “accidentally” met Don Luis at church. She “happened” to visit his office to seek legal advice regarding the malicious rumors surrounding her.

Don Luis, a 35-year-old man who had known only rules and work all his life—how could he resist? In front of him was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, smart enough to debate philosophy with him, yet fragile, trembling, with tear-filled green eyes begging for his protection.

And Don Luis fell into the trap. He fell spectacularly. He started believing Elena was a victim, that she was just unlucky in marriage, that the rumors in the capital were just out of jealousy. The reports he sent back to Mexico City began to change from “prime suspect” to “victim of circumstance.” He was trying to protect her.

The seventh marriage took place on June 18, 1772. Only four months after she returned. A small, modest wedding to avoid scandal.

Elena had won. Or so she thought. She was now the wife of the Mayor, the wife of the investigator. She lived in the official mayoral residence. She could walk freely into his office. She saw the letters, the secret files. She had completely neutralized the threat.

But Elena made a fundamental miscalculation. Don Luis Vega was not the lovesick Juan Soto, not the greedy Don Felix, nor the practical Pedro Diaz. He was a lawyer, a trained investigator. No matter how infatuated he was with Elena, his analytical brain never stopped working.

He lived with her. He listened to her talk. And he began to notice contradictions—small cracks in her perfect story. He started secretly re-examining the files himself.

In January 1773, an urgent letter arrived from the capital. The Viceroy’s administration, unhappy with Don Luis’s vague reports, issued an order: Reopen the entire investigation. You are required to provide all original files regarding the six previous deaths of your wife.

Immediately, Don Luis fell into an unimaginable situation. Loyalty to the King, or loyalty to the wife he had just fallen for?

And he chose justice.

The night of May 15, 1773. That night went down in history. Don Luis returned home. He didn’t eat dinner. He went into his study, locked the door, and spent the entire night reviewing everything. Don Mateo’s notebook. Autopsy reports from Mexico City. The contradictions in Elena’s own accounts.

Then he called his wife in. The final confrontation. He didn’t scream. He calmly placed the documents on the table. “Elena,” he said. “Explain this to me.”

For the first time in her life, Elena was cornered by someone she couldn’t manipulate, someone who knew everything. She tried. She cried. She confessed partially, blaming circumstances. “I was forced… I had to defend myself…” But it didn’t work. Don Luis looked at her, and the infatuation in his eyes was gone, replaced only by horror. He didn’t see the wife he loved. He saw a monster.

Do you know what happened next? Two weeks later. Only two weeks after that confrontation night, Don Luis Vega suddenly fell ill. Old symptoms: severe abdominal pain, vomiting, high fever. And he died.

This was the fatal mistake. Elena panicked. She broke her own rules. Killing a merchant or a landowner was a big deal. But killing a high-ranking federal official, a special investigator appointed by the Viceroy himself? That was a declaration of war against the entire Empire. And she didn’t know this:

Three days before he died, after that confrontation night, Don Luis Vega did one last thing. He wrote a detailed 20-page report, summarizing all evidence against Elena, sealed it with the Royal Court’s seal, and sent it to Mexico City via express courier.

That letter—the letter denouncing her crimes from the hand of her seventh husband—arrived in the capital on the very day of his funeral.

The game was over. Elena had checkmated herself. Don Luis Vega’s death wasn’t a ripple; it was an earthquake. You see, killing a merchant? The government might look the other way. Killing a landowner? They might investigate superficially. But killing a special investigator of the Royal Court? That was a slap in the face of the colonial government.

Within a week, an army—a real federal squad—was dispatched straight from Mexico City to Santa Clara. Their orders were clear: Arrest Elena Derios at all costs.

But they were one step too slow.

Elena, with her cold analytical mind, knew exactly what would happen the moment Don Luis took his last breath. She knew she had no doors left to manipulate. The game was finished. And she used her seventh husband’s funeral as the final smokescreen.

While the whole town was busy with the largest, most solemn funeral they had ever held for a Mayor, and while the first soldiers were still on their way, Elena acted. She didn’t run in a panic. No, she executed a contingency plan that I believe she had prepared long ago.

On the night of May 8, 1773, Elena Derios vanished from Santa Clara without a trace. She took only the essentials: gold, gems, and important papers. She dissolved like a ghost.

Where did she go? She returned to where she was born: Michoacán. But not the bustling city. She went deep into the mountains to a remote village named San Jeronimo. Imagine a place where time seemed to stop. A village of 500 isolated people perched high on a mountain. People here lived by farming and herding. They didn’t read newspapers; they didn’t care about politics in the capital. And they were extremely suspicious of strangers, especially government people.

It was the perfect hideout. And Elena Derios—queen of literary salons, mistress of haciendas—stripped away her old persona completely. She arrived in San Jeronimo with a new name: Anna Ruiz.

Who was Anna? Anna was a poor widow from Oaxaca; a terrible epidemic had taken her husband and children. She came here carrying a small remaining asset (the gold she brought) just to find a quiet place to pray, to live out the rest of her life in devotion.

And the people of San Jeronimo believed her. They sympathized with the weak, devout widow who went to mass every day, dressed simply, and spoke softly. Elena hid the monster inside her perfectly. She lived peacefully like that for a few months.

But I guess the demon inside her never sleeps. Or perhaps she realized a widow living alone, no matter how devout, would still be noticed. She needed one final disguise. A perfect camouflage.

And that was when she met Bruno Costa.

Bruno was the eighth husband, but he was completely different. He was 50 years old, a widower, and the caretaker of the small village chapel. Bruno was a simple man, honest, kind, and extremely pious. He had no assets other than a small livestock farm. Elena didn’t marry him for money. She married him for cover. A woman remarried to the most respected man in the village? No one could suspect her anymore.

Anna Ruiz was now Mrs. Costa. She had completely integrated. She was safe. The eighth marriage in September 1773 was the simplest wedding. A small ceremony in the chapel. Their new home was an adobe house with only one floor. From a queen living in silk, she now lived in a house smelling of livestock and damp earth.

And do you know the strangest thing? I’ve always wondered: during those months living with Bruno, did Elena ever feel true peace? Bruno was a good husband. He treated her with respect, with genuine affection. Perhaps this was the first time she experienced a normal marriage. Perhaps there were moments she truly forgot who she was, truly felt regret.

But the past never let her go.

In February 1774, a priest from the city of Morelia visited the village. During dinner at Bruno’s house, the priest slipped and mentioned: “The Viceroy’s government is very strict lately. They are scouring remote villages, looking for a woman, a widow who fled the capital. They say she is extremely dangerous.”

The blood in Elena’s veins froze. She knew they had picked up her scent. Her wall of safety was about to collapse. And fear overwhelmed every other emotion. It overwhelmed peace, overwhelmed regret.

The monster woke up. She made a final decision—the most desperate decision. She had to kill Bruno and that priest. Kill them, silence them, and she would have more time to run again.

The night of February 12, 1774. The priest had left, promising to return in two days. Bruno, unsuspecting, was sleeping soundly after a hard day’s work. Elena sneaked out to the backyard, where she hid her final tools. She began mixing… no longer sophisticated poisons. These were crude, deadly toxins she found on the mountain.

But she made a mistake. Maybe due to panic. Maybe due to fate.

Bruno woke up. Maybe he heard a noise. He walked out to the yard and saw his wife. Not the devout Anna, but a strange woman hunched over jars of powder and scary roots under the moonlight.

“Anna, what are you doing?”

That was the moment the truth was exposed. Bruno might have been simple, but he wasn’t stupid. He saw the tools; he recognized the malice in his wife’s eyes. And for the first time in her life, Elena had no words. She couldn’t seduce, couldn’t lie. She was caught red-handed.

Her reaction was primal instinct. She grabbed a kitchen knife. She attacked Bruno. But Bruno, a man who had worked hard all his life, fought back. He screamed. A scream that tore through the quiet night of San Jeronimo.

That scream didn’t just wake the neighbors; it woke a group of strangers who had just arrived in the village at twilight. A squad of soldiers led by Captain Maldonado—men who had tracked the faintest trails for months—had finally arrived in San Jeronimo. They burst into the house.

The scene before them was horrific. Bruno Costa lay in a pool of blood, clutching his wound but still alive. And Anna Ruiz—his wife—stood there holding the knife, her face expressionless.

“She… she tried to kill me,” Bruno wheezed.

Captain Maldonado didn’t need to hear more. He had the warrant to arrest Elena Derios. He recognized this woman. They searched the house, and under the dirt floor, they found it: a small chest. Inside was not just gold and gems. Inside was undeniable proof: A diary.

The personal diary of Elena Derios. Where she, with the arrogance of an intellectual, had recorded every detail about every husband. Names of poisons, dosages, observed symptoms, and motives of ambition.

The game was completely over.

Elena Derios was arrested on the spot. She didn’t resist. People recounted that when handcuffed, she looked calm, almost relieved—like a burden had been lifted.

The trial in Mexico City was an explosion. It was the biggest event of the decade. The entire aristocracy, people who used to dine and debate literature with her, now realized in horror they had been close to a demon. With the diary as evidence and Elena’s own cold confession, the verdict was set: Death by Garrote—the most brutal execution method.

But even then, Elena pulled off one last trick. In the days awaiting death, she suddenly became incredibly devout. She repented; she prayed day and night. The repentance was so genuine it moved even the priests. The death sentence was commuted to life imprisonment.

Elena Derios, the Black Widow of Santa Clara, did not die on the scaffold. She was imprisoned in a convent prison, and she lived there peacefully. For 23 years, she taught other prisoners to read; she did charity work. She died of old age in prison in 1798.

A strange ending for such a criminal life, isn’t it? It makes us wonder: Was that final repentance real, or was it just her last, most sophisticated act?

The story of Elena Derios, though stained with crime, leaves us with a deep reflection.

This isn’t just an indictment of a murderer, but a tragedy of ambition. Elena had all the gifts nature could bestow: extraordinary beauty and superior intellect. But she lived in an era where society slammed every door shut for a woman to rise legitimately.

And instead of accepting fate, she chose to carve her own path. A path paved with deception, manipulation, and ultimately, graves.

The biggest lesson we can perhaps draw is that intelligence and desire, when lacking the foundation of compassion, will never lead us to freedom. On the contrary, it will build the strongest prison.

Elena started with a very human desire: to control her destiny, to escape poverty. But then she became addicted to that feeling of control. She was addicted to power. She wanted to conquer Santa Clara, then conquer the capital. She couldn’t stop. Eventually, she was no longer the master of her ambition but became a slave to it. She was imprisoned forever in her own cruelty, long before she was put in a real prison.

In our own lives, everyone has ambition. And that is a great motivator for growth. But we must always ask ourselves every day: Where is the red line I will never cross? What is the price we are willing to pay for success? Because the moment we decide to sacrifice kindness, sacrifice compassion just to achieve a goal, what we lose is the most human, most peaceful part of our soul—which is always far more precious than anything we try to gain.

What do you think about this story? Do you believe Elena was a born demon or a product of society? And more importantly, what mystery do you want us to explore in the next episode? Please leave your comments below.

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Thank you for listening. Wishing you a very peaceful and warm evening.