Filed to story: Accidentally Slept With The Young Mafia Boss (Vincent & Helen) Book PDF Free
But before the horror could consume her, Vincent spoke, his tone still sounding calm.
“I’m type B. Take as much as you need.”
Helen froze. Her head instantly turned toward him, her breath catching in her chest.
‘He… he had the same blood type.’
Her throat tightened, heart pounding so hard she thought it would break her ribs.
She wanted to scream, to cry, to confess the truth that pressed against her lips. Oliver was his son. His blood. His flesh. His life.
But fear chained her tongue.
What if telling him now shattered everything? What if the truth didn’t save her, but destroyed her instead?
So she said nothing as she saw Vincent follow the doctor.
She only sank into the metal chair outside the surgical ward. His hands shaking, her mind a whirlwind of grief, guilt, and desperate hope.
Time dragged.
Every second felt like a knife twisting deeper into her chest. She was drowning in silence, utterly alone.
Vincent had disappeared, taken into the depths of the hospital to give his blood.
…
When the doors finally opened again, Helen lifted her head.
Vincent emerged, his dark charcoal suit gone, his sleeves rolled up, only a white shirt clinging to his frame.
His hair was slightly damp, his collar open, and though he should have looked exhausted, he looked impossibly composed; handsome and untouchable.
He walked toward her with that same unshakable presence, each step slow.
She felt her body tremble, her heart stutter, as if the air itself thickened with tension the closer he came.
And then, without thinking, the words slipped from her lips, soft and fragile.
“Thank you, Vincent… Thank you so much for helping Oliver.”
His steps halted, his eyes locking onto hers.
Helen’s pulse raced, her body caught between gratitude and fear.
She had no idea if those words were enough or if they were far too little for the truth she still kept buried inside her heart.
He said nothing, but his sharp gaze was fixed on her.
When Helen thought Vincent had absolutely zero interest in talking to her, she decided to return the favor and ignore him.
Fine by her. She had enough on her plate without adding his brooding, statue-like silence to the mix.
She lowered her gaze to her lap, staring at her trembling hands, clenched together, fingers tangled.
Then, his deep, husky voice broke the heavy silence like thunder.
“We need to talk, Helen Tupper!”
“Taylor!” She corrected him instantly. It feels strange to hear her old name.
Vincent’s eyebrow slightly raised to hear that.
‘Taylor? No wonder I never found her, she’s now using her mother’s last name…’ Vincent thought amusingly, as he hadn’t considered that possibility.
Helen frowned, her heart hammering against her ribs. She could already guess what he wanted to talk about, and the thought made her stomach twist.
Slowly, she lifted her head, meeting his gaze.
And there it was. Those eyes. Damn those eyes. Hazel, sharp, and infuriatingly familiar. The same eyes her son had.
She swallowed hard, her throat dry. “Hmm… go ahead,” she whispered, her voice barely above a whisper.
“No. Not here.” His tone was cold.
Then he turned, already walking away as though he fully expected her to follow like some obedient puppy.
But Helen didn’t move at all. Nope. Not even an inch. She remained seated on the chair, ignoring him.
Helen’s eyes never left the glowing red light above the operating room door.
She couldn’t move. Not while Oliver was still in there. Not while her baby was fighting for his life.
Did Vincent seriously expect her to just stroll down a hallway for a private chat while her son was bleeding out on an operating table?
She wanted to laugh, but it came out bitter in her mind.
‘Sure, Vincent. Let’s have a nice little heart-to-heart while my child is fighting for his life. Perfect timing. People may always do what you ask them to, but not me! I can’t do that… Sorry.’
Her fingers clench, knuckles white. Her gaze stayed locked on the door, her heart whispering one silent prayer on repeat: ‘Please, Oliver. Please hang on.’
Vincent paused his step when he sensed she wasn’t following him.
He turned to look at her, then raised an eyebrow as his gaze followed her eyes toward the door of the operating room.
That maddening calmness of his wrapped around every word when he finally spoke.
“Helen, you are worried too much. You must believe… Oliver will be alright. He’s in the hands of the best doctors. And Dylan will be here watching and waiting. He’ll tell us when the surgery is over.”
Helen looked at him, her face pretty calm, but inside, she was a mess of nerves.
Her eyes narrowed just a little. “Alright. But I just want to be near my baby. So, can we talk here, please?”
Her voice is calm and steady, but inwardly she is screaming, ‘Don’t you dare drag me away from that door, mister Moretti! I want to wait for my baby and be as close as possible, and you can’t tell me otherwise!!’
“Sure,” Vincent replied smoothly, his tone filled with that familiar sarcasm that made her want to throw a shoe at him.
He added, “But don’t be surprised if someone takes a photo of me talking to you here. I’m fairly certain our picture would be headline news within the hour…”
Before he could finish speaking, Helen quickly stood up in a rush. “Let’s go!”
Panic overwhelmed her. Of course, she believed him. If he said the paparazzi would sniff them out, then sure enough, she’d be on every gossip column cover by an hour.
And that was the last thing she needed.
She’d worked hard to disappear. To blend. To become nobody.
The peaceful anonymity she’d clawed for years could shatter in an instant if anyone connected her back to Helen Tupper.
She strode past him toward the elevator with as much dignity as she could scrape together.
But, behind her, his voice came cold. “Helen, you’re going the wrong way.”
Her steps suddenly halted.
She turned her head slowly and stiffly, her glare sharp. He stood a few paces behind, barely smirking as if enjoying her embarrassed, flushed face.
“…right here.” Vincent casually gestured in the opposite direction and started walking, not even waiting for her to catch up.
Helen exhaled a curse under her breath, ‘Perfect. Absolutely perfect. First, I’m terrified about my son; now I’m getting public navigation lessons from Mr. Untouchable himself. Maybe next he’ll remind me how to breathe?’
And yet, despite all the frustration boiling inside her, she followed.
…
The VIP ward room was quiet, too quiet, the kind of silence that made Helen feel like every step she took echoed her secrets across the sterile walls.
She followed him in, hesitant, her pulse racing as a man in a black suit closed the door behind them.
Vincent didn’t say anything. Just sat on the leather sofa like it belonged to him and gestured for her to sit opposite.
So she did. Slowly. Carefully. Like the sofa might bite her.
And then… silence lingered.
Vincent leaned back, long legs stretched out, arms resting lazily on the armrest.
But his eyes, those cold, sharp eyes, never left her. He just stared.
‘Oh, great. Here we go. The stare. The “I know everything and I’m waiting for you to confess” stare. I hate that stare. It’s worse than being yelled at.’
Helen clasped her hands in her lap, her knuckles white. She looked at him for a few seconds, but got scared and looked away.
Her heart was beating so fast she thought he could hear it.
