Filed to story: Accidentally Slept With The Young Mafia Boss (Vincent & Helen) Book PDF Free
But this time, she couldn’t avoid it any longer.
After finishing her phone conversation with Vincent, her fatigue and drowsiness suddenly vanished, as if they had never been there.
Her body still felt heavy from the several sleepless nights that had passed, but her mind was alert, buzzing, and restless.
Despite the sleepless nights, she felt like she had just woken up from a beautiful nap, refreshed and eager to start the day, though her heart carried a nervous weight.
To distract herself from becoming fatigued and drowsy again, she threw her energy into the kitchen.
Spaghetti bolognese. Cheese pizza. Blueberry cheesecake. Even a tall strawberry milkshake with whipped cream on top.
The kitchen smelled like heaven and chaos at once, with flour dusting her hair and tomato sauce splattered near the stove.
After a few hours of fussing, she stood back and admired the dining table. It was ridiculous, honestly.
The little wooden table could barely hold everything she had cooked. If an outsider walked in, they’d think she was feeding an army, not a single child recovering from surgery.
Finally, faintly, she heard a small, sleepy voice calling her.
“Mo-Mommy…”
Her heart clenched. She froze for a few seconds before taking a deep breath. Calm. Smile. Pretend everything is normal.
Then,
She hurried to his room, pushed open the door with a gentle hand, and there he was, her chubby son sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes like a baby bear waking from hibernation.
“Mommy, I’m hungry…”
‘Perfect!’ Helen rejoiced inwardly. ‘Food. Food is the key. Give him enough spaghetti and sugar, and he’ll forget everything. He won’t even think of asking… that question. The question after he told him, Vincent Moretti was his father…’
Like, “Why didn’t you marry Dad? Why does he only know about me now? One night stand? What is that, Mommy?”
She knew her son too well. And she knew herself even better: the moment Oliver asked about those questions, her carefully built walls would crumble.
So no, better to drown her son’s curiosity in melted cheese and blueberry frosting.
Her lips curved into a wide, spring-bright smile.
“Oh, sweetheart, Mommy already cooked your favorites: spaghetti bolognese, cheese pizza, and blueberry cheesecake. And I made a special drink… your favorite strawberry milkshake topping with vanilla ice cream. Come, come… let’s eat!”
Oliver’s eyes widened, lighting up instantly. “Really?” His little voice was full of awe.
“Yes, really….” Helen laughed, walking to him quickly as he flung off the blanket. But before his feet touched the floor, she stopped him with a hand.
“Baby, let me carry you.”
“No, Mom, it’s fine. I can walk.” He shook his head with determination, trying to stand.
Helen frowned but relented, holding his hand like porcelain. “Alright, but slowly. No running, you hear me? Your wound hasn’t healed yet. One wrong move and it’ll split open.”
Oliver nodded solemnly, though his small legs trembled as he made his way to the door.
Helen’s heart clenched at the sight. He was so fragile, yet so stubborn; Vincent’s blood ran through him without question.
As they reached the dining table, Oliver’s mouth fell open. His eyes darted from dish to dish, overwhelmed.
“Mommy… this is… wow…you make this all?”
Helen ruffled his hair proudly. “Of course. All for you, sweetheart.”
He sat carefully, his eyes sending a grateful smile at her before digging in.
Helen watched as the first bite of spaghetti made him close his eyes and sigh in delight.
“My mommy was the best chef in the world.”
Helen almost laughed at his over-the-top praise. But she didn’t argue with him; she just smiled and urged him to eat more.
For a moment, everything was perfect: the food, his smile, the peace of a quiet home.
She believed she might be able to escape the heavy topic forever, inform him briefly about Vincent Moretti, and nothing would happen after that.
But Oliver was her son, Vincent’s son. Too clever for his own good.
Halfway through his milkshake, he set his glass down and looked at her with those wide, curious eyes.
“Mommy…?”
Her heart skipped. “Yes, sweetheart?”
He hesitated, twirling his fork over his spaghetti. “Why… Why don’t I have a daddy like other kids?”
Helen gasped, but quickly she adjusted her expression.
This was the conversation she wanted to start, but somehow her tongue was too stiff to begin, and now her clever son is starting it.
She forced her lips into a smile, but her fingers gripped her lap beneath the table.
“Sweetie… you do have a daddy.” Her voice sounds calm, but inside, her heart begins to churn like a hurricane.
Oliver’s long eyelashes fluttered; he calmly continued asking, “I do? Then where is he? Why don’t I ever see him?”
Helen’s chest tightened. She had rehearsed dozens of answers, but now they all slipped away, just like what she predicted.
Her son’s eyes searched hers with quiet hope, and for the first time, she couldn’t hide behind food or jokes.
She reached across the table, covering his small hand with hers.
“Your daddy… he’s… special. He doesn’t live with us, but he loves and cares about you. A lot.”
Oliver tilted his head, a smile emerged on his lips as he continued, “What’s his name?”
She swallowed, gazing at the calmness in his eyes. She could almost hear Vincent’s voice in her ear: ‘Tell him. He deserves to know.’
“His name…” Helen swallowed, her pulse racing. “His name is Vincent Moretti.”
Silence. For a second, Oliver just stared at her, fork frozen in the air. Then, shockingly, he grinned.
“I knew it. I knew my father had to be him. I guessed it as soon as I saw him in the car…” he said nonchalantly, continuing to eat as if it was nothing he would be surprised about.
Helen blinked, dumbfounded.
She had imagined this moment a thousand times in her mind. But she never expected her son to react in this way.
‘Wow, he’s truly sharp with his observations… How could he have known it was Vincent the moment he saw him? Why is this the same as Vincent? He also recognized Oliver from the first time he saw him…’
Helen couldn’t help but smile happily.
Finally, the weight hanging over her shoulders was gone.
However, her smile quickly faded when Oliver’s follow-up question caused her to freeze.
“Mommy… if Uncle Vince… I mean, Daddy Vincent knew about me, so why didn’t he stay with us? Why does he only show up when I’m hurt?”
Her chest tightened.
She had prepared herself for this moment countless times, yet hearing the words come from his little mouth, paired with those wide, innocent eyes brimming with curiosity instead of anger, made her heart ache in ways she wasn’t ready for.
Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
The truth was too heavy, too cruel.
She couldn’t tell him about the years of hatred that had been ingrained within her heart and mind. About William Tupper’ ultimatum. About how Vincent Moretti’s very name had been a curse in her family. She couldn’t tell him she had been thrown out-disowned-because she chose to keep him.
If her innocent son ever learned the truth, she knew exactly what would happen. He would blame himself. He would carry guilt he never deserved.
No. She would carry that burden for him, no matter how much it cost her.
So Helen swallowed the ache in her throat, forcing a smile.
“Sweetheart, sometimes grown-ups… they can’t always be together, even if they want to…” Helen was stunned. Of all the thoughts racing through her mind, that one unexpectedly escaped her lips.
Oliver tilted his head. His brows furrowed. “But, daddy wants to, right?”
Her heart skipped a beat, caught between truth and lie.
Before she could gather the words, Oliver’s voice trembled again, smaller this time. “Or… Daddy didn’t want us? Is that why he left? Is that why he never comes to see us?”
The trembling in his voice tore through her soul.
Regret weighed heavily on her chest, as she wished she had listened to Vincent’s wise suggestion that he should be present when she told Oliver the truth about him. It might have made things easier for everyone.
Now, watching her son’s fragile hope begin to crack, Helen realized Vincent had been right all along.
