Filed to story: Accidentally Slept With The Young Mafia Boss (Vincent & Helen) Book PDF Free
Helen’s chest tightened. Panic surged. Her voice stumbled out, almost too quick, “Wait… wait…Vincent…”
Vincent halted.
His hand rested on the door handle, his back straight, but he didn’t turn yet.
The silence was so intense it felt almost suffocating.
She could feel the weight of his expectation pressing against her chest like a physical force.
Vincent was waiting. This man was probably thinking she was about to argue again, ready to throw herself into another round of back-and-forth sparring with him.
Honestly? She thought so, too. Except this time, she surprised him. Hell, she surprised herself.
“I need to borrow your phone,” she said softly.
That got him to turn. Slowly. Too slow. His brows arched, faintly suspicious, faintly curious, like she’d just asked him for the nuclear codes.
“Why?”
His voice was smooth, cold, that low rumble she hated for being so annoyingly magnetic.
She forced a small breath out, fumbling for words.
“I need to call Aunt Martha. She’s… she’s been helping me. She’ll panic if I don’t tell her about Oliver’s condition.”
Silence again.
With his gaze, his silence wasn’t just quiet; it felt sharp and frightening, like a knife pointed at her heart. He could slice her open with nothing more than a look, and right now, he was dissecting her with his.
Now, she understands why people fear Vincent Moretti.
She tried once more, desperation creeping in. “Ugh, Vincent, I’m not trying to get your phone number. I left mine at the cafe. I didn’t bring anything, not even my wallet. Just me and Oliver. Aunt Martha will be worried sick if I don’t call.”
For a flicker of a second, something shifted in his eyes. Reluctance. Cold calculation. As if handing her his phone was a classified transaction that required risk assessments and legal counsel.
‘Geez, does he really think I’d save his number? I won’t! I won’t keep your number, Vincent Moretti!’
Her sarcasm was screaming inside her head, but her face remained perfectly neutral outside.
And then, traitorously, her stomach twisted. Not from nerves, but from a thought so dangerous she wanted to slap it out of herself:
‘What if we end up married? Just for Oliver’s sake? Nope. No. Delete. Abort mission. That thought was not allowed. Not even in your thoughts, Elle!’
“Vincent, forget it,” she muttered, clenching her hands tight as she turned toward the small bedroom for the patient’s family to rest, in the corner.
“I’ll find a way to contact her.” She added.
Helen understood his reluctance. He was the CEO of one of the biggest companies in the country.
And, he is the nation’s golden bachelor. Of course, giving his phone to someone probably felt like handing out a loaded weapon.
‘Don’t put too much hope in him, Helen. Even though he just ordered you to move to the capital… It was because Oliver is his son!’
Helen tried to steady herself with that reminder, taking one step… two steps… toward the bedroom.
“Wait.” His voice sounds sharp and commanding.
She froze and turned.
He was watching her again, his gaze steady, unreadable.
Then, finally, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Sleek, black, expensive, the kind of phone that probably had more security layers than the Pentagon.
He held it out to her, but not before locking eyes with her again. That silent warning in his gaze was impossible to miss. Clear as day, it said: ‘Don’t even think about snooping. Just make the damn call.’
Helen swallowed and accepted the phone carefully, like it might bite her fingers.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Her hands trembled slightly as she dialed Martha’s number. Her heart pounded against her ribs, with every ring tightening the twist inside her chest.
The line connected, and a shaky, weak voice came through.
“Aunt Martha?” Helen’s voice cracked as relief flooded her mind. “It’s me. Don’t panic, Aunt… I’m at the hospital with Oliver. He fainted earlier, but the doctor already took care of him. He’s in surgery now.”
She squeezed the phone tighter, hearing the muffled sobs on the other end.
“Yes, I’m fine. No, you don’t need to rush here. I’ll explain later, I promise.”
Her throat burned, her eyes prickling, but she forced a smile into her voice, as if Martha could hear it.
“Aunty, trust me, Oliver will be alright. We will return soon. Yes, yes, that’s all that matters. Alright, Aunty, I’ll call again when he wakes up.”
She hung up, taking a deep breath and staring at the phone in her hand. It felt weirdly heavy, like it was more than just a device, like it could turn her world upside down.
Vincent extended his palm, silent and expectant.
She gave it back. Their fingers brushed, and for the briefest second, she wondered if he could feel how badly hers were trembling.
But Vincent just slipped the phone into his pocket, his face unreadable, voice sharp as usual.
“Change.” The single word was a command, not a suggestion.
Then he turned, opening the door.
This time, she didn’t stop him.
But her heart wouldn’t stop pounding, not from fear, but from the bone-deep realization that her so-called peaceful life was over.
Because Vincent Moretti-cold, infuriating, unshakably dominant Vincent-had just walked into her life and Oliver.
…
The door clicked shut behind him.
Vincent leaned against the wall for a moment, staring at his phone in his hand.
His thumb hovered briefly over the screen before he dialed a number.
It rang once. Twice. A calm voice answered on the third ring.
“Sir.”
“Dig into everything,” Vincent ordered without pause. “Helen Taylor. She has been living in Willowcrest town since leaving the Tupper’ estate. How she’s lived, who she’s relied on. I want every record, every step. And her son, Oliver Taylor. I need his medical files, where he was born, I need everything.”
There was a pause on the other end.
“Yes, sir. And the father’s…?”
“Don’t insult me!” Vincent’s voice became sharp. “He’s mine. Confirm the details anyway. Discretion. Immediate results.”
“Yes, sir.” The line disconnected.
Vincent slid the phone back into his pocket, exhaling quietly.
For a man who rarely allowed anything to pierce his composure, Vincent could feel this moment felt like balancing on the edge of a blade. Helen, who had been missing for years, believed she could hide her son from him, gradually driving him insane.
Straightening his shoulders, Vincent moved down the hall toward the surgery room.
Dylan was still there, hands clasped neatly behind his back like a loyal soldier. However, the sharp lift of his brows betrayed his gnawing curiosity.
“Boss…” Dylan greeted, his voice thick with questions. He’d been holding it back ever since they left the cafe, but now it slipped out. “The young boy is…?”
Vincent didn’t hesitate. “My son,” he said flatly, his eyes locked on the red light above the operating room, unblinking.
Dylan gasped, the words hitting him harder than expected; even though he’d already guessed it.
He still remembered Helen slipping out of the presidential suite that morning.
Since then, the thought had haunted him: Helen might be pregnant. She hadn’t taken the pill that morning, unlike every other woman his boss slept with.
“Yo-your… son?” Dylan echoed carefully, not quite asking, more like admitting what he already knew deep down.
“Yes.” Vincent’s jaw tightened, the word like iron shackles locking into place. “Dylan, I don’t like your tone. You need to know, I will not tolerate any man or woman questioning it.”
Dylan nodded quickly, head bowed in immediate apology and respect.
He knew better than to press further, even as his mind raced; Vincent Moretti, untouchable, feared in business and worshipped in reputation, was suddenly admitted to an heir. Such a truth could shake the country.
“No worries, boss. I know what to do…” Dylan murmured, then retreated to the corner, silent, giving his boss the space he clearly needed.
Vincent’s eyes never moved from the glowing red light above the surgery room, burning into him like a test of endurance.
He wasn’t a man built for waiting, but today, that was all he could do; stand there, silent, immovable, a predator forced into stillness before the strike.
