Filed to story: Accidentally Slept With The Young Mafia Boss (Vincent & Helen) Book PDF Free
Then, Helen sighs quietly. Her shoulders trembled as she whispered, almost to herself, “I just… I just need him to wake up. That’s all I need.”
Vincent opened his mouth several times, but no words came out.
He wanted to go over to her, maybe put a hand on her shoulder to calm her down. But he held back. Every step closer felt like giving up.
Instead, he leaned against the wall, his posture relaxed. “He’s strong,” he said finally, his voice low but steady. “He’ll wake soon.”
Helen turned her head just slightly, enough for him to catch the flash of vulnerability in her eyes.
She didn’t argue. She didn’t snap back like she usually did. But, she just looked at him, long enough for his cold mask to nearly slip.
For a moment, Vincent felt the room feel cramped. He exhaled quietly, pushing away from the wall.
“You can touch him if you want. Just… don’t climb on the bed again.”
Helen blinked, startled by the shift in his tone, then nodded quickly.
“Don’t worry, Vincent. I’ll keep my dangerous self-control in check. Your machines are safe with me,” she said, trying to tease him while clutching Oliver’s hand more carefully this time.
A flicker of emotion crossed Vincent’s face, softening the edges of his usual coldness. He didn’t trust himself to say more.
He kept his silence, but his body betrayed him; shifting closer, staying right by the bed, like he wasn’t going to let anyone near his son.
And though he stayed silent, his chest burned with one undeniable truth: his life would never return to the way it was before this moment.
They stayed in the room for a while, neither of them speaking, until a nurse entered and politely reminded them to wait in the wardroom. She explained that Oliver would be transferred in an hour.
Reluctantly, Helen let go of her son’s tiny hand. Her fingers didn’t want to move, but her muscles had no choice.
Vincent followed, silent as a shadow.
They walked side by side without a word, the kind of silence that felt less comforting and more like a contest of silence.
By the time they reached the VIP ward, Helen was tempted to fake a sneeze, anything to break the tension and the awkwardness of sharing the same room with Vincent.
Vincent, of course, didn’t notice Helen’s awkwardness. Or maybe he did and simply didn’t care.
He settled onto the sofa with his iPad, posture perfect, expression unreadable, like this whole hospital stay was just another business meeting.
Helen, on the other hand, was pacing in the small living room area, and her eyes stayed fixed on the door. Impatiently waiting for the nurse to wheel Oliver in.
When her son was finally settled on the hospital bed in the corner room, Helen stayed by his side, trying to comfort herself as she sat on the stool and watched him sleep soundly.
Even when her stomach was growling like a wild animal, she ignored it. Hunger could wait. Oliver couldn’t.
However, hours pass and the day nearly ends, yet he still sleeps.
The sterile fluorescent light makes everything look colder, harsher. It feels like the universe is mocking her.
Her back ached. Her eyelids burned. But none of it mattered. She wasn’t leaving.
What if Oliver woke up and she wasn’t there?
What if he opened his eyes, looked for her, and didn’t see her?
One second of him thinking she’d abandoned him was enough to keep her glued to that stool.
But exhaustion and her hunger show no mercy. When the sky starts to change color, she feels starving.
So she slipped out quietly. Just a stretch. Just a breath of air.
And froze.
Because there he was, Vincent Moretti!
‘Oh my goodness…. Vincent Moretti is still here…?’
He sat in the lounge inside the VIP wardroom, a sleek black laptop balanced on his knee, posture sharp enough to cut the monitor. His fingers danced across the keyboard.
Honestly, she hadn’t expected him to stay longer here.
Because she knew… Men like Vincent didn’t wait around in hospitals. Men like him had empires to run, minions to terrorize, and fortunes to increase by the second.
And yet, here he was. Still, not leaving Oliver, not leaving her.
Against her will, guilt stirred in her chest. She’d convinced herself Vincent was incapable of genuine care, but this… this didn’t look like he didn’t care.
And she hated the way that realization softened something inside her. She wanted to ask why he stayed, or maybe even thank him.
But her pride was strong, like a steel cage around her ribs, stopping her from speaking.
She just stood there, silently staring at him like he was one of God’s finer creations who’d somehow gotten lost and taken up residence in this hospital.
Of course, Vincent noticed her. He always did. His head lifted, and his sharp gaze fixed on her as if he’d been aware of her the whole time.
“What is it, Helen?” His tone was calm, almost dismissive, though his eyes glinted with quiet amusement, as if he’d caught her in the act of something ridiculous.
Heat crept up her neck. She straightened, trying to sound casual. “No-Nothing. I wasn’t going to bother you.” But, judging by the slight edge in her voice, she failed miserably.
Vincent’s lips curved slightly, hinting at a smirk. “Are you hungry?”
The question blindsided her.
Was he psychic?
Or worse, had her stomach betrayed her?
She crossed her arms casually while lifting her chin high.
“No.”
Vincent arched one brow, unconvinced. “Are you sure?”
Right on cue, her stomach growled loudly. Embarrassingly loud. Traitorous.
‘Damn it! You are a traitor!’ she vents her frustration inwardly.
He didn’t even bother to hide the smirk this time.
Helen shot a glare, her dignity hanging by a thread. She clarified, “I’m not! Just… Ugh, Vincent, go back to running your empire or whatever you’re doing on that laptop. I’ll sit with Oliver.”
He didn’t return to his work.
His eyes followed her all the way to the door, lingering until she disappeared back into Oliver’s room.
Vincent’s lips tilted in a quiet, knowing smile.
He pulled out his phone. “Dylan. Buy some sushi for Helen. Or whatever she’ll actually eat.”
The call ended as quickly as it began.
Then, his fingers returned to the keyboard, expression unreadable, as though nothing had happened at all.
…
Dylan returned not long after, carrying a few boxes filled with sushi, fresh fruit, and chilled drinks.
He placed everything neatly on the dining table across from the sofa, where Vincent was still immersed in his laptop.
“Boss, the food is ready. Do you want me to call Miss Helen?”
Vincent’s brow tightened for half a second, then he flicked his wrist in a dismissive wave. “Leave it.”
Dylan nodded and slipped out without another word.
When the door clicked shut, Vincent closed his laptop and set it aside.
Rising, he moved toward the bedroom. He didn’t bother knocking on the doors. He simply eased it open, careful not to wake Oliver.
What he saw, however, gave him pause.
Helen.
Her back was to him, her head resting in her hands on the edge of the bed. She had fallen asleep sitting up, her cheek pressed against her forearm, hair spilling forward like a curtain.
From where he stood, her face was hidden, her soft breath barely audible in the quiet.
For a man like Vincent, hesitation wasn’t usual, but he felt it now. Wake her? Let her sleep? He wasn’t sure which was the lesser crime.
His gaze shifted to the boy on the bed. Oliver’s skin was still pale, his lashes unmoving against his cheeks. His small chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, but his eyes remained tightly shut.
A weight settled in Vincent’s chest, foreign and unwanted.
‘Why isn’t he awake yet?’ The thought is bothering him. ‘It’s been nearly ten hours.’
