Filed to story: Accidentally Slept With The Young Mafia Boss (Vincent & Helen) Book PDF Free
Her eyes stayed fixed on him.
‘Does he even own pajamas? Or does he just sleep in that?’ She wonders.
His eyes caught hers, and the corner of his mouth lifted just slightly.
“Good morning, Helen.”
The way he said her name, low and smooth enough to send a ripple of something down her spine, she didn’t care to name.
She exhaled slowly, refusing to let him see her nervous gaze.
Without answering, she turned on her heel, leaving the door wide open behind her as she rushed back into the kitchen.
If he wanted to follow, that’s okay. Let him do what he wishes. But she wasn’t going to just stand there staring at him like some starstruck fool.
She reached the kitchen, grabbed the frying pan, and started to make a quick breakfast.
‘He’s impossible. Utterly impossible. Not even seven in the morning, and he looks like sin dressed in silk while I look like a half-burnt piece of toast.’
Helen could already hear his faint footsteps entering the house. She continued cracking the eggs.
But as she was about to take the third egg, his gentle voice sounded so close behind her.
“Need extra hands?”
“Need extra hands?”
Vincent’s voice came from far too close, like he’d leaned in just enough to make the air thicken.
Helen’s grip on the eggs tightened, and her heart clenched when the faint trace of his cologne reached her nose; fresh, clean, minty, and annoyingly distracting.
‘He can cook? Wow! A man who can make breakfast feel like a crime scene investigation.’
A smile forms on her lips, imagining they are cooking together. But then, she quickly pushed those thoughts out of her mind.
“No. Just… return to your house and wait for my call,” Helen wanted to snap. But, of course, she didn’t. She wasn’t foolish enough to believe Vincent Moretti would ever listen.
Instead, she paid no mind to him and concentrated on the task at hand. The eggs cracked smoothly against the edge of the bowl, the sound crisp and clear in the peaceful kitchen.
But he is still there, standing so close to her, annoyingly distracting her mind.
Without turning to him, she asked, “You can cook?”
“Of course not.”
His words were firm, unapologetic, and almost proud, which made her bite her lip to hide her laughter. He had offered his help so confidently, only to declare just as confidently that he couldn’t cook.
Her brows slightly raise.
‘Did I hear that right?’ Slowly, she turned to look at him. Then, she immediately regretted it.
He’s standing way too close!
They are so close that if she tilted her head just a bit, she might gently bump into his warm, solid chest. Only thinking about it enough to make her heart race, adding a flutter of excitement to her pulse.
‘Calm, Elle! Don’t reveal any of your feelings to him…’
Helen stepped back quickly, desperate for distance, only to feel the cold edge of the kitchen island press against her spine. Trapped.
Her mind started to find something clever to say, but Vincent got to it first.
“Well,” he continued, his voice as smooth as ever, “I can’t cook, but I can make a phone call and have someone send breakfast here.”
He said it casually, as if it were the most reasonable solution.
Helen merely looked at him, silently thinking, ‘Of course he’d say that. Of course, his idea of help is to call his chef…’
She said nothing more, she shook her head, then turned back to the kitchen counter, cracking another egg with unnecessary force.
“Vincent, can you wait on the sofa? I need room to work here.”
Naturally, he didn’t move. Naturally, he stood there like he owned the apartment.
“No need to cook like a five-star chef, Helen,” he said mildly. “I’m not a picky eater. I can eat anything.”
Her hands stilled. Oh, the irony. Vincent Moretti, the CEO, billionaire, impossible perfectionist, claiming he wasn’t picky. She almost laughed, but the sound stuck in her throat.
“Excellent. Who’s going to believe that?” But she didn’t dare say it aloud. He had a way of twisting her words, cornering her until she was left breathless and outmatched. Silence was safer.
However,
The silence didn’t last.
Somehow, without Helen noticing, Vincent moved from hovering behind her to standing next to her.
His height, his presence, his scent… it was all too much, and yet she forced herself to focus on the bowl in front of her as if her life depended on it.
“Vincent,” she said, trying to steady her voice, “I understand. Well, I’m not making anything fancy. Just scrambled eggs, toast, and waffles. Hopefully, you can eat our usual breakfast here.”
“Ah,” he chuckled, “I love home-cooked food, Helen. No need to worry.”
The sound of his laugh curled in her stomach. She set the whisk down with more force than necessary, forcing her shoulders to square.
“Okay. Then could you leave me alone? Or, you can check on Oliver? He’ll probably wake up soon. You can talk with him…”
He was not moving at first, like he was debating whether to ignore her again. But, finally, with a nod, he stepped back. “Hmm. Alright.”
Only when he walked away did she realize she’d been holding her breath.
The moment his footsteps faded toward the hallway, she let out a long sigh of relief, sagging against the counter.
“Thank God,” she whispered, fanning his face with her hand. Suddenly, she felt hot.
With Vincent left her alone, she could actually work. She turned on the stove, butter sizzling in the pan as she poured in the beaten eggs.
The familiar rhythm calmed her: the scrape of the spatula, the golden toast popping from the toaster, the faint sweet scent of waffles crisping in the iron.
But the peace lasted only a few minutes.
From Oliver’s bedroom, she could faintly hear Oliver’s laughter. It made her feel a warm happiness in her heart, knowing her son must be delighted to meet Vincent again after learning he was his father.
She feels at ease as she continues to prepare their breakfast.
Just as she finished arranging the food and drinks on the island, she heard Oliver’s voice at the same time.
“Mommy!” Oliver beamed. “Daddy’s here!”
Helen turned and saw Oliver running in with sleepy hair and wide eyes, holding Vincent’s hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Oliver’s excitement was pure, unfiltered. It’s hard for her to put into words how happy she was for her little one.
She smiled warmly at her son. “That’s great, honey. Oh right, breakfast’s ready… but you know the rules, right?” Her words made Oliver freeze mid-step.
Vincent, still holding his little hand, halted as well. His brows drew together as he glanced first at his son, then at Helen.
“What rules?” Vincent asked, clearly confused.
Oliver shifted uneasily, then looked up at Helen with guilty eyes. “Sorry, Mommy…” He turned to Vincent, his voice soft but firm. “Dad, wait here. I’ll change first. Please wait for me.”
Before Vincent could respond, Oliver released his hand and darted back toward his room. The sound of his small footsteps faded down the hallway, leaving an odd silence in the kitchen.
Vincent gave a short nod toward the empty hall. “Sure, buddy,” he murmured, though his gaze lingered long after Oliver had vanished.
Finally, he turned to Helen. She was at the counter, focused on pouring coffee into a mug.
Crossing the kitchen, Vincent stopped by the island, close enough that the space felt suddenly smaller. His voice was calm, but edged with disapproval.
“Aren’t you being too hard on him?” he asked. “He’s only three, remember?”
Helen placed the mug down, her hand steady despite the tightness in her chest.
She didn’t look at him right away, unwilling to let him see the disappointment and sadness behind her eyes.
Then she turned to look him in the eyes.
“He needs to learn discipline,” she finally answered him.
Before Vincent could say something, a smile formed on her lips as she asked, “Latte? Espresso?”
She was trying to divert their conversation. She didn’t want to talk about it now. Not when Oliver is around.
He was surprised to see her so calm. He expected her to argue back with her usual sarcasm. But he was wrong.
“Expresso.”
