Filed to story: Accidentally Slept With The Young Mafia Boss (Vincent & Helen) Book PDF Free
She exhaled sharply.
“Vincent, listen carefully.. No! I’m not sending photos, I’m not rubbing it in his face, and I am definitely not wearing a wedding gown tomorrow just for your entertainment.”
Silence.
For half a beat, she thought he might argue again.
Then his low laugh slid through the line. “Stubborn as ever. Fine, Mrs. Moretti-to-be. Keep your little secret. For now.”
Her pulse skipped when she heard the way he called her like that. ‘Mrs. Moretti…’
“Would you like me to pick you up tomorrow?”
“Seriously?” Helen was speechless. She just had to walk to the next door; why on earth does he think she needs him to come?
“Ok, good. I will come.”
“No, don’t!” Helen interrupted him instantly, remembering how he always twisted her words. She knew she had to speak clearly, or he would interpret everything however he pleased.
“Alright, get some good rest!”
Helen could only say, “Hmmm…” before she hung up to avoid him twisting her words again.
She tossed the phone aside. Pressed a pillow over her face and tried to get a good night’s sleep.
But, of course, she failed. She was too nervous about tomorrow.
And, now…
Something crossed her mind, his promise to let her stay here for half a year before moving into his world.
“Vincent Moretti, don’t you dare break your promise!”
The next day.
“Mommy… are you awake? Can I come in?”
Helen stirred, Oliver’s soft voice echoing faintly through the door. Her eyes snapped open, narrowing on the shut door with a frown.
That was odd. Her son rarely came knocking this early unless she’d overslept, but that wasn’t the reason now, because it wasn’t even seven. Or worse, something had happened, like he was hurt.
Heart racing, she yanked the blanket off and stumbled to her feet.
“Baby, are you alright…” She suddenly fell silent, leaving a tense pause in the air.
Because standing in the doorway wasn’t Oliver. It was Vincent Moretti.
Helen blinked once. Twice. Three times, just in case her sleep-addled brain was playing cruel tricks on her.
But nope!
The six-foot-something wearing a slim-fit white shirt was very real, very smug, and very much not her three-year-old.
“Good morning, Helen,” he said, his voice gentle. “You look pretty.”
Her brain stalled.
‘P-Pretty?’
She froze like a deer caught in headlights, then, horrified as he realized something.
‘Oh, no…’
She was still wearing her crumpled nightgown. Her hair? Her swollen eyes? So many things are now dancing in her mind.
Forget ‘pretty,’ she looked like the worst version of herself ever.
And why him? Why Vincent Moretti, who witnessed that?
Without saying another word, Helen spun around, slammed the door in Vincent’s ridiculously handsome face, and yelled through it, “I’ll be back!”
She bolted to the bathroom.
Inside, she leaned against the sink, panting like she’d just run a half-marathon.
“Good morning, Helen, you look pretty,” she muttered in a deep mockery of his voice, glaring at her own reflection. “Oh sure, say that while I look like this…”
Grabbing a brush, she attacked her hair, wincing at every knot. Her pulse still raced, not just from embarrassment, but from him.
‘Why was Vincent even here this early? How did Oliver open the door for him? Wait… Why didn’t I hear any doorbell?’
She splashed cold water on her face to try to quiet all those questions now swirling in her mind.
This was supposed to be just another morning to her. Well, not just another morning since she was expected to sign her marriage certificate with Vincent Moretti.
But still, she plans to start her day, usually, serving breakfast for her son before meeting him.
Helen slapped her cheeks again, then forced herself to breathe and clean herself up. She needed to pull it together before facing him again.
…
Didn’t take long,
Helen finally emerged from her room, hair brushed, face washed, and in proper home clothes that at least didn’t scream ‘zombie apocalypse survivor’.
She expected Vincent to be gone by now, or at the very least still lurking near the door like an unwanted shadow. Instead, she froze.
There he was, standing at the kitchen island, sleeves rolled up, calmly setting down plates like he actually lived in this place and she was the guest.
And not just any plates, there were eggs, toast, fresh fruit, even a steaming cup of latte that smelled heavenly.
Her eyes darted immediately to the door, expecting Dylan or the chef to be nearby. But the hallway was empty. Oliver wasn’t there either, just Vincent.
For a brief moment, she gasped before moving closer to him.
“Vincent, seriously, why are you here? And why on earth did you bother preparing this?”
He didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he pulled out a chair and offered her a composed gaze.
“Have a seat, Helen. We need to eat before we begin the day.”
She blinked at him. Was this real life? Was she still dreaming?
‘Maybe I already died and I’m trapped in some bizarre alternate universe where these dangerously handsome billionaires play house in my kitchen!?’ She wonders.
Still, she moved toward him and sat down, mostly because her legs were betraying her.
Her eyes never left him, suspicion written all over her face. Before she expressed her thought, “Vincent, listen… I would never want your time wasted cooking in the morning just for me… For us…”
“Wasting my time?” He leaned against the island, casual as ever. “Not at all. And you remember we will sign our wedding certificate today, right?”
“Yes, I remember…” She said while frowning.
“I want you to start your morning with a clear mind and body. That’s why I’m making sure you get enough rest and stay out of the kitchen, Helen.” When she gasped in surprise, Vincent continued, “You’re welcome…” and he smiled.
Helen was completely speechless, but eventually, she managed to say, “Thank you for your kindness, Vincent. But seriously, you don’t have to cook for me. How could I let you do that?”
“Why not?”
Seeing his stubborn expression, she decided to stop. She knows he will twist her words again.
But, in her mind, Helen was too busy to find an answer to her doubts.
‘This man definitely can’t cook, right?’ She wondered while gazing at the latte and the plate with scrambled eggs and freshly baked bread. ‘Okay, I admit, this looks… impressive.’
Helen laughed softly as she took the latte cup. But the moment she sipped it, her eyes slightly widened. She was surprised by the taste. How similar it was to what she usually makes.
She looked at him and set the cup on the table. Curious, she asked, “Did you actually cook all this?”
He simply smiled in that annoying way of his, shoulders loose, posture relaxed.
“Let’s just say I know some people who could be trusted when it comes to food.”
‘I knew it!’ Helen could only laugh inwardly, shaking her head faintly.
Of course, Vincent hadn’t cooked this breakfast himself; he probably summoned his army of chefs to march in and set it up. But then her eyes narrowed.
‘Wait! How did he even get in here?’
“Vincent,” she asked slowly, suspiciously, “how did you enter this place?”
He looked at her like she’d just asked if the sky was blue. “Are you seriously asking me that?”
“Yes. I don’t remember ever giving you a spare key.”
