Filed to story: Accidentally Slept With The Young Mafia Boss (Vincent & Helen) Book PDF Free
‘Of course. I ask about myself, and he runs straight back to Helen. Perfect!’
Still, he forced a smile, awkward and a little stiff, before patting the boy’s tiny hand with his large one.
“Relax, little man. Your mommy just went to eat. She hadn’t eaten all day, so I made sure she did.”
Oliver’s mouth slightly gasped, his eyes growing watery again.
Vincent quickly added, “Hey. Don’t start crying. Don’t be afraid… She’ll be back soon, before you even count to a hundred. Ah, sorry, little man, can you count?”
Oliver sniffled but managed a slight nod, and his cute, trembling voice followed.
“I… I wasn’t afraid. I just felt worried my mommy might be sad and afraid again. She never cried before. But when he saw me hurt, bleeding, she cried…”
Vincent feels like a bolt of lightning just struck him, looking like a three-year-old little man who whimpers and, in his miserable voice, expresses his fear for his mother.
He silently let out a deep sigh, trying to keep his expression from revealing too much to this little man.
‘So this is fatherhood? Babysitting emotions, you don’t know what to do with…? Fantastic, Vincent!’
Vincent continued to listen to Oliver expressing his worry about his mother.
And somehow, he listened to every word the little man said, and he was unable to look away.
Yet, he was busy talking to the little man, but in his mind, ‘You know, little man, three years… I didn’t even know you existed. And now here you are, staring at me like I’m some character you’ve read about in a storybook.’
The silence stretched until Oliver suddenly piped up, “Sir, you don’t look boring…”
He blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“Mom said you were… a boring man who wears boring suits and does boring things,” Oliver’s voice was soft, and his eyes sparkled with innocence.
Vincent was at a loss for words.
He thought Helen might say nice things about him to Oliver, but he was wrong. It turns out that Helen was quite happy to tarnish his image in front of their son.
“But, sir, you’re not that boring. You just look… serious. Like… like when my favorite cartoon character gets angry, but they’re not really…”
Vincent stared, at a rare loss for words. ‘Serious. A cartoon character. Perfect.’
He pinched the bridge of his nose while holding back a laugh.
“Your mom has a dramatic imagination.”
Oliver giggled, then immediately winced at the soreness in his feet when he laughed and tried to sit again.
Vincent’s hand hovered protectively. “Wow… careful, little man…” He muttered, holding his chubby, cold hand, “Don’t hurt yourself trying to laugh…”
The boy smiled faintly, and something strange warmed Vincent’s chest. His smile was enough to warm his heart. Something foreign he had never felt before.
Then Oliver whispered, “S-Sir… You’ll… stay here, right?”
The question was so small and simple that it completely disarmed him. He gazed intently, observing the boy’s hopeful expression.
‘You’ve opened my world to something I have never foreseen before in less than five minutes, and now you’re asking for something I’ve never promised anyone in my life.’
But when he opened his mouth, his voice was calm, steady, almost tender.
“Yeah. I’ll stay.”
Oliver’s lips curved into a tired but satisfied smile. His little fingers curled around Vincent’s much larger hand, holding on like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And Vincent Moretti, the cold, ruthless, untouchable Vincent Moretti, found himself sitting beside a hospital bed, wondering when exactly he’d agreed to let a three-year-old own him so easily.
…
When Helen finished the last bite from the table, she cleaned up quickly, not wasting another second.
Her heart pulled her right back to the bedroom. She needed to see Oliver.
The moment she stepped inside, she froze.
Oliver was awake.
Her chest swelled with joy, and instinct pushed her forward, ready to throw her arms around her son. But then she froze in her tracks.
“Oh my god…” she whispered, almost choking on the words.
Oliver’s small hand was tucked safely inside Vincent Moretti’s much larger one.
And Vincent, Mr. Iceberg himself, was actually smiling. Worse, he was laughing. A soft, low laugh that didn’t belong to the cold, ruthless man she knew.
Oliver was grinning up at him, animatedly talking about his favorite cartoon character as if Vincent had been waiting his whole life for this very conversation.
Helen’s mind short-circuited.
‘What in the world happened here?’
She glanced at her watch. She’d been gone for, what, an hour? Maybe less?
And in that ridiculously short time, her son and Vincent had gone from strangers to… what was this? Bonded. Connected. Like they’d known each other for years.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered under her breath. “Leave them alone for sixty minutes, and suddenly it’s best-friends-forever time.”
Her eyes darted back to Vincent, his expression softer than she had ever seen, like a crack had formed in that carefully constructed armor of his.
Then the thought hit her, sharp and terrifying.
‘Wait. Wait. No. He wouldn’t tell Oliver about himself, right…?’
Her pulse increased, panic racing through her veins.
‘He won’t tell him without my concern, right?’
The very possibility made her heart slam painfully against her ribs. She swallowed hard, and she felt the room spinning for a second as she tried to steady herself.
‘No. No, he couldn’t have. Vincent wasn’t reckless like that. He was deliberate, careful, and calculating.’
Still, the way Oliver’s little hand clung to his as if it had always belonged there.
Helen’s stomach felt heavy and twisted.
After taking a deep breath and hiding her panic attack in her mind, Helen cleared her throat and kept walking.
Her smile widened when her eyes met Oliver’s.
“Mommy…”
“Mommy…”
“Finally, you woke up, sweetheart…” Helen said, her voice trembling with relief as she hurried to the bedside.
She deliberately ignored the intense stare from Mr. Iceberg himself, who had stood up from the stool as if trying to give her some space.
With practiced ease, Vincent released Oliver’s hand, smooth and casual, as though it meant nothing.
However, Oliver had other plans. Her son wouldn’t let Vincent disappear into the background like some bodyguard on standby.
“Mommy, look, look who’s here… It’s Mr. Vincent Moretti!” Oliver’s eyes beamed as if he’d just discovered a superhero coming to visit him.
Helen suddenly finds her throat going dry, catching her off guard.
“I know… of course I know… because he’s your father, Oliver.” Helen wanted to say that, but the words only lingered at her throat, never past her lips.
She forced a soft smile for her son and darted a glance at Vincent.
Predictably, the warmth she had seen on his face earlier, the rare smile, had disappeared. Instead, it was the usual Vincent: cold, unreadable, with a look sharp enough to see the truth behind anyone’s confidence, let alone shyness.
‘My goodness… does he practice that death stare in the mirror every morning?’ Helen thinks amusedly.
Still, she hurriedly pushed aside her own thoughts. There’s something more important than imagining how Vincent practices his expression.
She needs to talk to her son. She politely smiled at Vincent, ready to ask him to step outside so she could speak to Oliver alone.
However, before she could, her son spoke again, “Mommy, you were wrong…”
Looking into his gaze, she knew his words were a trap. And whatever he wanted to say made her nervous.
“Wrong?” she casually repeated.
A faint smile gradually appeared on her lips, despite her inner panic. ‘When did I say something wrong? What did I forget? Oh no. Oh no. Please don’t tell me…’
“This morning,” Oliver continued, his small voice sweet and innocent. “When I asked you who Vincent Moretti was, you said…”
