Filed to story: Accidentally Slept With The Young Mafia Boss (Vincent & Helen) Book PDF Free
“Not spicy. Thank you…” Vincent replied and stood, casual as ever, and crossed the room to perch on the kitchen island. Not too close, but close enough that Helen could feel his eyes on her. Watching, always watching.
Her back stiffened as she stirred the noodles. Great. Now she had to cook while being watched, as if she were cooking in a cooking show and before a TV camera.
“Ugh, why are you like this?” she muttered under her breath, loud enough for him to hear. “Couldn’t you just eat before you come here?”
“I was in a rush to get my ride,” he said smoothly. “…and I didn’t have time to eat dinner.”
“Why do you need to rush? Don’t you have a private jet?” she responds, still unwilling to see him.
“You are right, I have jet, but today I fly with a helicopter, and the pilot needs to go home.”
Helen rolls her eyes. Of course, she can’t believe him. She read in one of his interviews that he has a pilot’s license. He usually flies his jet and helicopter.
“Do you think I believe you, Vincent?” she wanted to ask, but those words only echoed in her mind.
“And besides,” he continued as though this were a perfectly normal conversation, “I only stay next door two nights… No food in my fridge. Only water.”
Helen’s lips twitched. She wanted to laugh, but held it in.
‘No food in his fridge? Please. This man probably owns three refrigerators, a backup freezer, and a personal chef on speed dial. Next, he’ll say he’s too poor to afford bread.’
She bit her tongue, knowing that if she said something, he would twist her words into another verbal victory. And she was not giving him that satisfaction tonight.
So she focused on the noodles. Stir. Stir. Glare at the stove like it personally offended her.
Maybe if she glared hard enough, they’d boil faster.
Silence continues.
She almost thought she’d won some peace when his voice broke in again.
“Don’t worry, Helen,” he said quietly, his tone almost gentle. “This is the last time I’ll bother you. I’ll have someone fill my fridge tomorrow.”
Her spoon froze mid-stir.
‘Oh, really? The last time you’ll bother me? What is this, a farewell dinner? Should I be honored that you chose my cheap noodles as your final meal?’
Her inner sarcasm practically screamed, but she bit it back, lips pressed tight. Outwardly, she said nothing, dumping the noodles into a bowl with a sigh.
Helen asked him to sit at the dining table by the glass window, then she placed the bowl in front of him.
“Bon appetit, Mr. Moretti…” she said as she settled across from him.
Vincent looked at the steaming noodles, then at her, and for the briefest second, his lips curved into the ghost of a smile.
He didn’t touch the noodles right away. No, of course not. He had to sit there, studying the bowl as though it were a top-secret file marked “Classified.”
A sour smile crosses her lips, “Oh, please… So, you need to run a background check on the egg first?”
Finally, he picked up the fork, twirled the noodles, and took a bite. He chewed slowly. Thoughtfully. Like he was critiquing a Michelin-starred dish.
Helen was laughing inwardly, her sarcastic remark returned, “Well, Mr. Moretti? Did I pass the test? Or should I prepare my resignation letter as your unpaid chef?”
His lips twitched, just slightly.
“It’s good, Helen!”
Helen blinked.
“Please stop, don’t shower me with too much praise. You might overwhelm me with all that enthusiasm.”
He took another bite, unbothered. “I’m not. It’s terrific food. Delicious”
She pinched her eyes in disbelief.
He said it was good. But, wait. Was he… meant to say it? Her instant noodles? Good? No way. Either this man had never eaten instant noodles in his life, or his taste buds were broken.
Helen narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously, aware that the instant noodles she makes always turn out salty.
Even her son, Oliver, constantly reminds her not to use all the ingredients. And just now, she was too distracted to remember that.
“Are you mocking me?” She asked.
“No.” His gaze flicked to hers, steady and unreadable, before returning to the bowl. “I’m just hungry.”
“Oh.” Helen slightly smiled while venting her sarcasm in her mind, ‘Well, hungry man eats noodles…I believe he has really lost his taste buds.’
However, she couldn’t help watching him as he ate. And of course, because the universe enjoyed tormenting her, the sight was… oddly attractive.
He didn’t slurp like a caveman or chew like a tractor. He ate neatly and controlled, with every movement smooth.
Even eating instant noodles, Vincent Moretti still managed to look like he belonged on the cover of a glossy lifestyle magazine.
‘Ugh, stop staring, Elle…’ She scolded herself inwardly before turning her gaze away, pretending to fuss with a dish towel. ‘He’s just a man eating noodles, not a commercial for luxury table manners.’
And yet… when she peeked at him again, he was almost done. And worse, he looked satisfied.
He gently set the empty bowl down with a soft sigh, as if that small, sad meal had truly satisfied him.
“Thank you.” His eyes meet hers.
She swallowed nervously.
“You’re welcome,” she answered, though inside her sarcasm was buzzing. ‘Wow, first he invades my kitchen, then he compliments my noodles. What’s next? Ugh, I hope he leaves me alone… in peace!’
But then-because fate clearly hated her-he wiped his mouth with a napkin, stood up, and said in that smooth, commanding voice of his, “Tomorrow, don’t forget we’ll finalize our marriage.”
Helen nearly fell out of her chair.
Vincent walked to the door, his tall frame moving with that same steady confidence that always made Helen feel both irritated and… well, slightly short of breath.
Helen assumed Vincent was finally going back to his own house, and of course, she was secretly relieved. She could almost taste her freedom.
“No worries. I won’t be late. I’ll show up at your house tomorrow,” Helen said calmly, though inside, she felt twisted like a washing machine set on high spin.
“Good.” Vincent’s hand was already on the door handle.
“Bye, Vincent…” she happily said, eager to push him out before he could drop another one of his annoying remarks.
But of course, Vincent wasn’t Vincent without one last twist. He paused, turned, and looked at her with that unreadable expression.
“Why are you in such a hurry to ask me to leave?”
“So… you assumed I was going to ask you to sleep here?” she shot back sarcastically, chuckling just to cover her nerves.
He didn’t even flinch. His stare was blank, calm, deadly serious.
“Oh, so Helen, you want me to sleep here?”
‘What the heck!? Did I say the wrong sentence? Again?’ Her mouth opened. Closed and opened again. She was speechless. ‘My goodness, Elle… why, oh why, did you even try to banter with this man?’
Helen feels frustrated with herself. She knew, each time, he took her words, twisted them around, and then threw them back at her like a grenade.
“I will never reject your offer to stay, Helen,” he said smoothly, almost regretfully. “But not tonight. I need to do something at my house.”
Suddenly, she feels as if lightning has struck her. ‘Rejecting? Rejecting what?! I didn’t offer him to stay in the first place! Oh, my lord… this man was thinking too highly of himself…’
“Alright, go home now, Vincent,” she snapped, shoving him toward the hallway. “I need to rest my eyes. Or I’ll be late tomorrow.”
He let her push him, though his amused expression told her she wasn’t winning anything here.
But just as Helen was about to slam the door behind him, her steps faltered.
Standing outside was Liam, waiting politely with a large paper bag in his hands.
Great. Perfect. Now she had an audience.
Instantly, Helen straightened her back, plastered on a polite smile, and pretended she hadn’t just been arguing like a madwoman.
She cleared her throat, “Evening, Liam,” she said smoothly, as if everything was perfectly normal.
Vincent took the bag from Liam, then, with that calm authority that made everyone else obey without question, he handed it to her.
“Wear this tomorrow.” And with that, he walked away with Liam following him. No explanation, no opportunity for her to respond. Just those three words.
His house door clicked shut, and Helen remained frozen in place.
The bag hung from her hand like a cursed object. Her eyes slowly drifted down to the logo on its side, and her jaw tightened.
It was from one of the most famous fashion houses in the country.
Her stomach sank. A very, very bad feeling prickled down her spine.
“Vincent Moretti… He bought me clothes?”
