The Don and the Wife

(11) crazy minds♡

Chapter 11

crazy minds ♡

Madness.

It isn't a familiar emotion to me.

Cold.

That I know, that I have felt.

But lately, it has been all heat, fire and...passion.

Madness. She has driven me to Madness.

I like control in my life. Ordered chaos. As chaos is inevitable in my line of work, an eventuality, but I like it controlled.

But Lyra fucking Beaufort. My wife.

She takes my control and shakes it like she doesn't give a damn what the hell comes tumbling out.

Gesù Cristo. I had threatened my own brother earlier. And not just with pain or punches, he had received threats like that from me all the time growing up. I had threatened death and I had meant it.

Cazzo. She is creating a mess that I have no interest in cleaning up.

Turning to look at the monitor on my desk, I run a hand over my mouth.

My beard needs a shave.

She's sketching something she sees out the window. Probably a tree. Or a flower. Or some shit like that. She likes to draw nature. And lists.

And me.

Finding her sketchbook was easy, I've been watching her on the security cameras almost every day since she arrived. Looking inside it when I knew I shouldn't was even easier. But finding sketches of myself, detailed perceptive drawings.

I am no dumb man.

And my wife is certainly no dumb woman.

Her drawings are the equivalent of a journal. An insight into that crazy little head of hers. Me being in there is one thing, but the skill and care that she has applied. The small details; like the scar by my upper lip; the subtle darkness which sometimes lingers below my eyes; the five o'clock shadow (which before I met her was always trimmed neatly) that sits closely cropped to my face.

Maybe she would shave my beard for me.

My fists clench as I imagine her standing that close to me, blade pressed against my throat.

She would probably try to kill me.

My eyes narrow as I notice she's stopped drawing. Her pencil is tapping relentlessly against the page of her sketchbook and I flex my hand as I wonder what the hell is going through that head of hers.

I meant what I said last week. I will kill anyone I have to if it ensures she falls into place. Anyone but her.

Something switched that day. Something in her. She isn't docile. God, no, I don't think the woman knows the meaning of the word. But she is pliant, agreeable, no longer actively doing things to piss me the fuck off.

Someone knocks on the door and I close the live stream, not wanting to share her quiet state of sketching with anyone else.

"Entrare," I command.

The door opens and Elio steps through, a tablet clutched in his hand.

Fantastico. More bad news.

"What?" I snap.

Elio sighs and runs a hand through his hair, buon Dio, he needs a hair cut, "I risultati per Puro non hanno senso."