Filed to story: Accidentally Slept With The Young Mafia Boss (Vincent & Helen) Book PDF Free
Finally, she can’t hold it anymore.
“You said you wanted to talk to me, but why are you only staring at me now? What do you want?” Her voice was steady enough, but inside, she was screaming.
Vincent’s lips curved, but not into anything warm. A faint, knowing smile.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Oliver? Why did you run away from me?” He asked.
Helen froze. There it was. The question she’d been running from for years, and not once had she tried to imagine how to answer it.
Her throat tightened, and she laughed weakly, more to stall for time than because anything was funny.
“Straight to the point, huh? No warm-up questions like, ‘How have you been, Helen?’ or… ‘Nice weather today’? Guess small talk was never your thing.” She bitterly smiles.
But, he didn’t smile. He didn’t even blink.
She swallowed hard.
‘Right. No more pretending. He knows. Of course, he knows. And what am I doing? Bantering like this is some sitcom? Get it together, Elle! Even if you deny it, he’ll do the DNA test!’
Her fingers twisted in her lap.
“You already figured it out, didn’t you?” A faint smile emerged on her lips.
Still, he didn’t answer, but his silence said enough.
She let out a shaky breath.
“Fine. You win. Oliver… Oliver is your son.” The words felt like bricks tumbling out of her chest. Heavy. Terrifying.
Her gaze fixed on Vincent’s eyes, but he didn’t flinch. He simply watched her.
So she kept talking, because silence was worse. Silence was torture.
“I wasn’t trying to keep him from you,” she whispered, the words tumbling out faster now. “I left because I didn’t have a choice. My father… he would’ve destroyed me if I’d told him the truth. He would’ve destroyed you, too. Vincent, you were his enemy.”
After taking another long, deep breath, she continued, “Do you have any idea what would’ve happened if I’d said your name? If I’d admitted Oliver was yours?”
Her voice wavered, but she continued.
“I had to leave and do whatever I could to protect my son. And yes, I didn’t tell you because I was scared… If I had, you might have done the same thing my father did…”
Helen’s heart ached as she spoke, but she couldn’t stop now. The words were flooding out from her lips.
“I raised him alone. I lied to everyone, every single day. And I know I should’ve told you, but I thought…”
She paused, her fist clenched tightly in her lap.
“God, I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was protecting him. But then, when he was hurt…”
Her voice faltered. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself and meet Vincent’s gaze.
“You saved him, Vincent. You didn’t even hesitate. And all I could think was… what kind of mother keeps a boy from his father when his father is the one who would run through fire for him?”
Her laugh came out watery and bitter, directed at herself. “So, yeah. Congratulations, Vincent Moretti… You’re a dad!”
She braced herself for his judgment, his anger, the cold words she knew were coming.
But instead, Vincent leaned forward slightly, his gaze fixed on her calmly.
“You should have told me,” he said quietly.
Helen winced. It wasn’t loud or cruel, but it felt more hurt than if he’d shouted.
“I know,” she whispered. “I know I should have. But I was terrified. I thought you were going to kill me, you were going to drag me to the hospital and make me abort my pregnancy, like William Tupper…”
“Or maybe I was only trying to hold onto something that was mine, only mine. Oliver was… he was my whole world for me.”
Vincent’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes flickered.
Helen’s lips twisted into a half-smile, trembling at the edges.
“You’re angry. I can see it. But if you’re about to yell at me, can we wait until Oliver is discharged? I’d rather not explain to my kid why we were screaming at each other like a bad soap opera.”
Helen tries to change the mood, and for a split second, she thought Vincent almost smiled. Or, maybe it was only her imagination.
Then his voice came, calm and steady, but filled with something that sent chills down her spine.
“He is my son…” His words were stern and not a question. He said it without a doubt, like stating an undeniable fact.
Helen nods, “Yes. He is. You and Oliver have so many similarities.”
The weight of it pressed down on her, both terrifying and relieving. She’d finally said it. No more hiding. No more lies.
But Vincent’s silence now was worse than before. His eyes burned into her, calculating, unreadable.
And Helen, ever the coward in moments like this, thought frantically, ‘Please don’t say custody battle. Please don’t say lawyers. Please don’t say “I’ll take him from you.”‘
Instead, Vincent leaned back slowly, his gaze never leaving hers.
“We’ll talk about this. All of it. But understand this, Helen… I won’t be kept in the dark again. And, you and our son will move to the capital…”
Her stomach flipped.
“What? Why? I can’t…” Helen asked faster, as she suddenly realized: her carefully built walls, her quiet, hidden life, her fragile peace, they’d just shattered.
Helen was still reeling from his words: “We’ll talk about this. All of it. But understand this, Helen… I won’t be kept in the dark anymore. And, you and our son will move to the capital.”
Her lungs froze. For a moment, she forgot how to breathe.
The capital.
The one place she had promised herself she’d never set foot in again. Too many ghosts lived there, too many enemies with sharp eyes and sharper knives.
She had hidden, survived in this small heaven. She built a quiet, invisible life where no one knew who she was, or whose blood ran through her son’s veins.
And now, Vincent wanted to drag her right back into the fire.
Her lips parted, shaky and small, but she forced the words out.
“I can’t. I can’t go back there, Vincent. No one knows about me. About Oliver. We’re safe here. I’ve made sure of it.”
But even as she spoke, she already knew. She knew by the way Vincent’s expression didn’t flicker, soften, or even register her plea. His jaw was set like stone, his eyes unreadable but unwavering.
She might as well have whispered her rejection into a hurricane. It was pointless.
He didn’t even argue. He didn’t need to. That silence of his was louder than a hundred shouted threats.
Just by looking at him, Helen knew Vincent Moretti was not a man who accepted rejection.
Her heart sank.
‘Great. Perfect. Congratulations, Helen. You’ve managed to escape your father’s iron grip for years, only to land yourself in the claws of the man he hated most. Excellent life choices, truly award-winning.’
Before she could find the courage to push again, the door opened.
A man in black walked in, his presence sharp and quiet, the kind of person who blended into shadows until summoned. He bowed slightly and held out a paper bag to Vincent.
“Sir.”
Vincent took it without a word, then he stood up from his seat. Helen stiffened when he extended the bag to her.
“Change,” he said.
She blinked. “…What?”
His gaze flicked over her, and she suddenly remembered the blood. Her shirt and pants were ruined, crimson stains seeping through the fabric. She hadn’t noticed in the chaos of Oliver’s collapse, but now, sitting under the sharp lighting of the VIP ward, it was glaring.
Her heart aches. It feels hurt once again when she thinks of the frightening moment in her life, carrying her bloody son into her arms.
“Change, or when Oliver wakes up, he might faint from seeing your blood-stained body.”
Her lips curved into a faint smile as she held back a quick protest, realizing he had a point. Sometimes, it’s best to listen and understand the other person’s perspective.
As much as she wanted to cling to her pride, the thought of Oliver waking to see her like this, soaked in crimson, was unbearable. He’d been through enough. He didn’t need to wake up to nightmares, either.
Helen nodded, quietly, and accepted the bag.
“Fine.”
Vincent lingered a second longer, as if making sure she wouldn’t throw the clothes back in his face, then turned toward the door.
“You’ll wait here,” he said. “I’ll return once the surgery is finished.”
And just like that, he was leaving.
