Filed to story: Accidentally Slept With The Young Mafia Boss (Vincent & Helen) Book PDF Free
She tried to press on the handkerchief knot on his feet gently, but that only made the blood flow out faster, slipping between his fingers.
‘God. No. No, please…’ She screams in her mind, too frightened to see his wound.
This wasn’t just a cut. This was a wound that struck deep, hitting something important; a vein, an artery.
Every beat of his tiny heart was draining him away. She could feel it in the way his pulse faltered beneath her touch.
Luckily, his eyes still beamed as he stared at her, as if he wanted to calm her chaotic nerves.
‘Don’t you dare leave me, Oliver. Don’t you dare!!’ She was venting her frustration while holding back her tears.
Vincent slid into the backseat next to her, with his phone already at his ear.
“Hospital,” he ordered, and Dylan, behind the wheel, didn’t hesitate, slamming his foot on the gas pedal.
The car lurched forward, tires screeching, but Helen barely felt it.
She was too focused on Oliver, too focused on the way his little chest rose and fell unevenly. His breath was shallow, fragile, as if it could disappear at any second.
Vincent’s gaze flicked toward her, and for a fleeting moment, the mask slipped.
His eyes landed on Oliver, on the child’s face, pale yet strangely radiant, hazel eyes glazed with pain but still glimmering faintly with life.
Vincent’s own chest tightened.
Those eyes. That face. It was impossible to ignore. The boy’s face looked exactly like the photo of him when he was around that age. He felt like he was looking at his toddler self.
For a second, Vincent almost forgot to breathe. The sharp line of his nose, the faint arch of his brows, even the stubborn set of his lips, it was as though he was staring into a mirror of his own childhood.
The possibility clawed into his chest before he could stop it. Could it be?
He shook the thought, but it returned instantly, louder, more insistent. Helen disappeared four years ago.
He was searching for her endlessly. And now here she was, in front of him again, carrying a child about three years old.
His child?
“Sir?” The voice on the other end of the line snapped Vincent back.
He turned his gaze away from Helen, jaw tightening.
“Prep the ER now… Male child, severe blood loss. Foot injury, possible severed vein. We’re en route.”
His voice was steady, ice-cold, but his knuckles whitened against the phone.
Oliver whimpered faintly, a weak, broken sound that shredded Helen’s soul. Her breath caught in her throat, tears spilling down her face.
She wanted to scream, but fear strangled the sound. She pressed her lips to her son’s hair, whispering prayers she wasn’t sure would be heard. ‘If I lose him, I lose everything… Please God help me.’
“We’ll be there soon, honey… please hang in there, okay?” She lied. She knew the hospital was a thirty-minute drive from her place.
Vincent’s gaze flicked back to them again, his eyes lingering too long. He hated the way his chest felt unsteady, hated the thought that burned in his mind.
He had no right to care. No reason to care. Helen Tupper left without explanation. She was supposed to be nothing; she is only the woman he sleeps with because of their stupidity.
And yet… the boy in her arms.
He couldn’t ignore it.
“What’s his age?” Vincent asked suddenly, his tone deceptively calm, but his eyes drilling into her with something dangerous.
Helen’s lips trembled. She could feel the weight of his suspicion, like he already knew the answer.
Her heart pounded in terror, not just for Oliver, but for what Vincent might piece together.
She forced herself to swallow and whispered, “Three.”
Vincent’s entire body went still.
Three.
The number echoed like a gunshot in his mind. Three years. Exactly three years. The timing lined up too perfectly. His jaw flexed as he stared at her, though his face gave nothing away.
“Blood type?” he asked, his tone sharper and quieter. “This is for hospital info…” he added when she looked reluctant.
“B…” Helen’s voice cracked, but she steadied it, forcing herself to look strong even as her insides tore apart.
Inside, she was chaos. A hurricane of terror and grief. Her mind screamed with every pulse of blood spilling from Oliver’s foot.
‘Please, God, don’t let me bury my child. Don’t let me watch him die in my arms.’
Her son. Her everything. The one thing she had left after losing her family, after being cast out.
But she could feel Vincent’s gaze burning into her, not just as a man trying to save a child, but as someone who had questions, dangerous questions that she couldn’t allow to surface.
Don’t ask. Please, don’t ask. Not now.
But Vincent already knew. He didn’t need her answer. He could feel it in the marrow of his bones. This boy… this fragile, bleeding child, was his.
The thought made something strange and unbearable twist in his chest.
For years, he had hunted Helen, driven by curiosity over her disappearance and tormented by unanswered questions. And all this time, she had been carrying his son. Raising him. Alone.
Rage bubbled beneath his skin, colliding with something softer, something he hadn’t felt in years. Fear. Not for himself, but for the boy. His boy.
Oliver’s small hand twitched, his fingers brushing Helen’s wrist, and Vincent’s heart clenched in a way he didn’t recognize.
He leaned forward, voice hard but low, “Keep the pressure steady. Don’t let go.”
“I know!” Helen answered, her voice cracking under the weight of her panic. Her tears streaked down, but she didn’t dare release her grip. “He’s losing so much… Vincent, he’s…”
“He’ll make it,” Vincent interrupted her. “Do you hear me, Helen? He will make it.”
His words were firm, but inside, doubt gnawed at him. The boy’s face was growing paler by the second, his breath growing shorter and fainter.
Vincent’s gut twisted with something he hated: helplessness.
The hospital loomed in the distance. Sirens wailed faintly from somewhere ahead as Dylan turned the car toward the emergency entrance.
Helen held Oliver tighter to her chest, her mind overwhelmed by chaos, fear, and desperation. If she lost her son, nothing else mattered. Not even her life.
Vincent’s eyes stayed on the boy, on the fragile thread of life slipping through Helen’s fingers. For once, the great Vincent Moretti felt powerless.
“Let me carry him!” In a heartbeat, Oliver was already in his arms.
And in that moment, as the hospital doors appeared, one truth overwhelmed him: if this child was truly his, nothing and no one could take him away.
The car screeched to a halt, and the emergency team was already waiting outside.
Of course they were, this was Vincent Moretti’s hospital. His name alone was enough to move mountains, and now, the staff scrambled like soldiers before a general.
“Please do your best to help!”
Vincent handed Oliver over to the doctors. He could feel Helen crying beside him.
“Yes, sir!” A few doctors answer politely.
Then another doctor shouted as if he wanted to alert everyone in the team, “Severe blood loss, wound to the foot, possible arterial damage!”
They rushed Oliver onto a stretcher, moving fast through the wide glass doors.
Machines beeped, voices overlapped, but all Helen saw was Oliver’s tiny hand dangling limply off the stretcher until a nurse tucked it back against his chest.
Helen followed, nearly stumbling, her tears blurring everything around her. ‘My baby. Please, God. Save my baby…’
Vincent’s presence was a storm just behind her. Silent. He didn’t need to shout; his authority bled into the room, into the very walls of the hospital he owned.
When his sharp voice cut through the chaos, everyone obeyed without hesitation.
“Stabilize him. Stop the bleeding immediately.”
Helen’s nails dug into her palms as she watched the surgical team vanish behind steel doors, her son’s pale face the last thing she saw before they slammed shut.
Her knees nearly gave out, but she forced herself to stand, clinging to a wall beside her for support.
Moments later, a doctor rushed back out, panic-filled in his tone.
“Sir, we’ve just checked the blood bank. We don’t have any units of type B in stock. We have already ordered from our main branch at Grayenfall, but they will only arrive in forty-five minutes…”
Helen’s world spun out of control at the news.
“What?” Her voice trembled, terror rising in her throat. ‘No blood? That meant…!?”
Her body went cold, her hands trembling violently. Oliver couldn’t survive without it.
