Filed to story: Accidentally Slept With The Young Mafia Boss (Vincent & Helen) Book PDF Free
But then, as quickly as it had come, Vincent’s laughter faded when his gaze shifted to Martha.
Martha stood at the doorway, her expression calm but curious, her eyes narrowing slightly as if she were making sure her eyes didn’t betray her whether Vincent Moretti was really standing in front of her house.
Vincent adjusted Oliver in his arms and stepped forward, nodding politely.
“You must be Aunt Martha?” He asked.
Martha’s eyes widened at his politeness.
“Oh, Vincent… yes, that’s me.” Martha’s lips curved into a smile, warmer now. She had expected arrogance, distance, maybe even disdain. Instead, here he was charming and respectful.
“Nice to meet you, Aunty Martha.” Vincent extended his free hand for a handshake, holding Oliver effortlessly. His tone was steady but polite, almost formal. “Thank you for taking care of Oliver and my wife for me.”
Helen was stunned when she heard him say, “My wife!” Her cheeks heated so fast she was certain Martha could see the flush spreading across her skin now.
Her heart betrayed her, fluttering wildly as though it had been waiting years to hear those words.
Meanwhile, Vincent continued speaking to Martha, his voice calm and respectful, quite different from how he usually talks to others.
Seeing this different side of Vincent was enough to stir something in Helen’s heart.
However, she shook her head, trying to dismiss anything about Vincent from her mind.
She distracted herself, walked inside the house, gathered her bags, and Oliver’s toys.
Not long after, Vincent gently but firmly excused them.
Martha, perhaps sensing Helen’s fluster or Vincent’s impatience, didn’t insist they stay for tea. She simply hugged Oliver tight, squeezed Helen’s hand, and nodded with a meaningful smile that made Helen’s stomach sink.
‘Oh great! Aunty must be going to tease me about that “my wife” line forever.’ she thought with a smile, quietly amused, as she walked alongside Vincent toward the parking area.
…
Helen was surprised that Vincent led her toward her car, and he drove himself. She thought he would ask Dylan to drive for them.
Vincent casually placed Oliver in his car seat. She was about to sit next to Oliver, but Vincent opened the car door for her.
She was stunned but didn’t refuse. Quickly, she got in the car, worried someone might see them.
Soon,
The car drove smoothly as it glided down the coastal road, the windows open just enough for the salty breeze to slip in.
Helen sat stiffly in the passenger seat, her eyes locked on the horizon, trying her hardest not to look at the man driving beside her.
Vincent’s hand rested easily on the wheel, his profile sharp against the sunlight.
Too sharp. Too distracting.
Her heart kept reminding her of how casually he had called her “my wife” back at Martha’s house.
The words still echoed in her chest, tugging at places she wasn’t ready to admit existed.
She played with the strap of her handbag, desperate for a distraction.
And then came the distraction, in the form of a very talkative three-year-old in the back seat.
“Daddy,” Oliver called, leaning forward, “Mommy said she misses you.”
The words echo through the car like a firecracker.
Helen feels like she was struck by lightning hearing his words, “What?!” She twisted in her seat, turned to look behind her, “Oliver Taylor, when did…”
“Moretti…Oliver Taylor-Moretti,” Vincent added calmly, interrupting her to finish her words.
Her mind paused briefly as she turned her gaze to Vincent. He didn’t look at her; instead, his focus was on the street ahead.
Silently sighing, she nodded at his words. It was true, their son’s name had already been changed, just like hers.
After clearing her throat slightly, she looked at Oliver again and asked, “Oliver Moretti, when did Mommy say that?”
The little man, clearly unbothered by the horror inside her mind, blinked innocently.
“Mom, did you forget? You said it this morning. When you were making waffles. I saw you blushing and talking to yourself. You said, ‘Vincent, you’re ruining my day, I miss you, why don’t you just show up instead of texting?'”
Helen gasped even wider. She is indeed saying that. But she remembered no one in the kitchen. Or is he really there?
She could no longer think about it, as now she feels her face grow hot, and she believes her cheek must be the same shade as the strawberry jam sitting in her fridge.
“O-Oliver, sweetheart… Th-That’s not what I’m saying, darling. Maybe just… uh…” She flailed for words but hurriedly continued, “…just me yelling at the waffle maker. You know, a waffle maker burns things sometimes, right? You misunderstood.”
Helen tried to change the subject because she didn’t want her three-year-old son to keep exposing her to Vincent. While she hoped Vincent would ignore their conversation, she wished he were thinking about his million-dollar business deal.
But the universe, of course, is not on her side this time.
From the driver’s seat came a low sound. Not a laugh-Vincent Moretti didn’t laugh often-but something dangerously close to it, a deep rumble of amusement.
She turned her head toward him while whispering under her breath, “Don’t you dare…try to…”
His lips curved, the faintest smirk tugging at them. His eyes stayed on the road, but his voice carried an infuriating calm.
“So… you miss me?”
Helen nearly coughs.
“No! I mean… of course not!” she answered too quickly, and her tone was making it too clear that she had exposed herself. “W-Who would miss you? I just…”
Oliver cheerfully interrupted, “But you did say it, Mommy. And you were smiling too.” He added.
Helen silently averted her eyes, trying not to roll them.
In her mind, she vented, ‘God, remind me to not loudly voice my concern next time…’ She suddenly wondered, ‘Oh! Does my son have super hearing? Or can he just read my terrible thoughts right now?’
Vincent’s smirk deepened, though he kept his gaze firmly on the road, as if nothing about this conversation bothered him.
But suddenly his voice broke the silence, “Good to know,” he said casually, almost teasing. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Helen, who had already tried to calm her mind, turned to see him.
“Keep what in mind?”
“That you always talk to yourself when you miss me,” Vincent answered smoothly, as if it were the most ordinary fact in the world.
She blinked, speechless.
But just as Helen thought her silence would finally bring peace to the ride, her clever little boy struck again with his innocent question.
This time, his innocent yet devastating question was not directed at her. It was aimed directly at Vincent.
“Daddy, did you miss Mommy too?”
The car became so still that Helen felt her entire body freeze. Her pulse surged into her throat, and for a moment she thought she might choke on her own breath.
She braced herself for Vincent’s usual response. He would brush it off. He would change the subject. He would sit there with that cold, unreadable expression that made her want to scream. That was the Vincent she knew. That was the Vincent she expected.
Instead, without even blinking, he answered.
“Of course I did.”
The words were simple. Direct. They carried no hesitation at all.
Helen gasped, widened, and her heart was pounding so loudly. She turned her head toward him, desperate to see some crack in his features, some faint curve of his lips that would tell her he was joking.
But Vincent’s face remained calm. His voice stayed steady. He looked like a man simply speaking the truth. And that was what made it feel unreal to her.
Oliver, oblivious to the chaos he had just unleashed, burst out clapping. His tiny hands slapped together as his laughter filled the car.
“See, Mommy! You both missed each other! I knew it! Yay!”
Helen barely heard him. Her mind had frozen around one thing. Vincent had said it. He missed her.
Her heart fluttered with a warmth that made no sense. Panicked by the feeling, she snapped her eyes back to the road ahead, pretending to be fascinated by the passing trees. But inside, her thoughts spun like a hurricane.
‘He missed me?’
Her chest felt tight, almost painfully so.
‘No. Don’t trust it, Helen. He was just trying to humor Oliver. He did not mean it. He could not mean it. This is Vincent Moretti. The man who told you with his own mouth that he feels nothing for you. He didn’t love you. The man who lives in control, discipline, and cold logic. He does not just miss people.’
Yet her heart would not stop pounding.
She risked another glance at him, hoping to catch some clue that would undo the mess in her head.
But his expression remained maddeningly neutral, his eyes on the road, his hands relaxed on the steering wheel. He looked as if he had not just detonated a bomb inside her chest.
