Filed to story: Accidentally Slept With The Young Mafia Boss (Vincent & Helen) Book PDF Free
For a man who thrived on control, it unsettled him that this, of all things, was beyond his grasp.
He could buy empires, crush enemies, rewrite futures. But here, staring at a pale child and an exhausted mother, he felt the hollow truth: his power meant nothing.
And he hated it.
Yet still, he didn’t move.
Vincent stood there, motionless, as if rooted to the spot.
He didn’t usually linger where emotions tangled themselves into a mess, but tonight was different.
His gaze rested on Helen again. He can see her head still tilted in restless sleep. A strand of hair had fallen across her cheek.
For one reckless second, his hand twitched.
He wanted to brush the strand aside, smooth her hair back, if only to convince himself she was really here, safe. But the thought dissolved as quickly as it came.
Vincent Moretti didn’t indulge in such impulses. He buried them deep, where no one could ever see.
At the same time, Helen stirred.
Her lashes fluttered slowly and hesitantly, as if her body had finally sensed the air shift. A soft groan escaped her lips as she shifted, reluctantly lifting her head from her armrest.
The first thing her blurry vision caught sight of was Oliver. Still asleep. Still pale. The sight tugged something sharp in her chest.
The second thing she saw was him. Vincent Moretti.
She saw him standing there, as if he had stepped out of a Gothic oil painting: broad shoulders forming sharp lines in the lamplight, his hands casually resting in his pockets, his expression unreadable.
That face of his looked as if it were carved from stone, yet it somehow held the quiet authority of command.
Her heart gave an ungraceful leap.
Waking up drooling and with messy hair, with him standing close to her?
The universe really hated her.
She sat up straighter, pulling her hair forward like a curtain and subtly angling her face away from his sharp gaze.
‘Please, dear heavens, no pillow creases across my cheek…’ She prayed.
“Were you… watching me sleep?” She asked.
Vincent’s brows lifted.
“You looked… peaceful, Helen.”
‘Peaceful?’ That word didn’t belong anywhere near her at the moment.
“Peaceful,” she said sarcastically, running her fingers through her messy hair. Again. To make sure she looks decent. “Yeah, I looked like I fought a pillow and lost.”
He didn’t respond. That’s typical of Vincent. He often remained quiet, as if he were speaking his own silent language; calm, steady, sometimes more meaningful than words.
His head tilted slightly, as if he was recalling how she looked, all messy.
Helen shifted under that gaze. It wasn’t fair how a man could say nothing and still make her feel like she was on trial.
She tries to dismiss the embarrassing voices in her mind, shaking her head as she shifts her focus to her son.
However, her stomach betrays her with a loud growl.
‘Oh, perfect. Now he thinks I’m starving to death on top of being a mess.’
Vincent’s lips curled slightly. It wasn’t a full smile, just a subtle flicker of satisfaction across his face.
“Food’s on the table.”
Helen blinked, surprised by his words, then turned her head to look at him again.
Her head snapped toward him.
“Wait… you ordered food?”
“Sushi,” he casually answered, “…and some fruit and drinks. Should be enough to stop that growling noise coming from your stomach.”
Helen is torn between gratitude and embarrassment. On one side, he had truly thought about her, and it’s been a while since any man has done that. On the other side, he made it sound like he was teasing her.
She smiles. “Thank you, Vincent. I don’t….”
But Vincent didn’t let her finish her words. Instead, he gently put his finger on her lips, signaling a shush sign.
Then, his eyes shifted briefly toward Oliver before returning to her. “Stop talking and go eat your food,” he softly ordered. “Don’t worry about Oliver. I’ll stay here.”
Helen paused, lips pressing together, then nodded. Without another word, she moved toward the door.
Her feet felt heavier than they should, and for some unknown reason, she didn’t dare admit it; leaving that room was not as easy as she expected.
She was anxious about leaving her son with Vincent.
What if Oliver woke up and she wasn’t there?
…
The door clicked softly.
Vincent turned his head, gaze drifting back toward the bed. Oliver lay there still, the steady rhythm of his breaths the only sign of life.
He stepped closer, hands sliding from his pockets, the weight of responsibility pressing into his shoulders.
The boy’s small frame looked fragile beneath the sterile white sheets. He stood there for a long moment, watching the rise and fall of Oliver’s chest until the faintest movement grabbed his attention.
A soft stir.
A twitch of fingers.
‘He awake?’
He watched Oliver’s lashes flutter open. His eyes initially blinked unfocused, then gradually focused. His small body was shifting restlessly against the pillow.
His eyes wandered the room, still blurred from sleep, until they locked on him, and his eyes widened. He looked frozen.
And, Vincent froze too.
For a moment, they simply stared at each other, two strangers, bound by something neither had been aware of or prepared for.
Vincent felt his chest tighten.
The boy’s hazel-green gaze was too familiar, like a mirror reflecting back at him.
Same sharp shape. Same piercing look. Except softer. Innocent. His eyes didn’t carry the weight of building an empire or fighting enemies, just curiosity.
Then, with a weak but certain little voice, he spoke, “Oh… I know you.”
Vincent’s brows lifted slightly at his words.
‘Know me?’ His name wasn’t exactly bedtime story material for kids. Unless… Helen had been slipping in tales about the big evil Vincent Moretti?
“You know me?”
Vincent asked, his tone cautious, almost awkward. It was the first time he’d ever tried speaking softly to a child. It felt strange on his tongue, like he wasn’t himself.
“Y-Yes.” Oliver tried to sit up, but Vincent was faster, immediately pressing a gentle hand to his shoulder.
“No,” Vincent said firmly, though his voice even more softened. “Don’t get up. Your leg still needs more time to recover. No hero moves tonight.”
Oliver’s lips twitched as though he found that oddly funny, then whispered, “You are Vincent Moretti… right?”
Vincent blinked. The sound of his full name coming out of such a tiny mouth nearly stunned him.
“Yes…” Vincent answered slowly, still processing.
‘How does this little man know me? Helen? Did she tell him about me?’
‘How does this little man know me? Helen? Did she tell him about me?’
Vincent’s chest stirred with too many questions, so he asked the most obvious.
“I’m surprised to hear that.” Vincent smiled weakly. “Did your mom tell you about me? What did she say?” He asked curiously.
At the mention of mom, Oliver’s focus snapped, all thoughts of Vincent momentarily forgotten. His small face crumpled, his lashes trembling.
“Wh-Where’s my mom?” His voice sounds fragile and scared as he searches the room with his gaze.
Vincent felt disappointment prick at him.
