“If You’re Ashamed of Me, Don’t Touch Me”—The Mafia Boss’s Answer Silenced the Room

“If you’re embarrassed by me, don’t touch me.” Emma Parker’s voice cut through the room after Sabrina called her Vincent Moretti’s private little salon fantasy in front of his entire family. Vincent reached for her. Emma stepped back. “I won’t be the woman you want only when nobody important is watching.
” Sabrina smiled triumphantly. Vincent stared at Emma. Then he slowly turned toward everyone else. “Good.” Emma frowned. Vincent looked directly at her. “Watch.” Before anyone could react, he pulled Emma close and kissed her. When he finally released her, the room was silent. Vincent’s eyes remained on hers. “Now ask me if I’m embarrassed.
” Several weeks earlier, Emma Parker was holding a pair of scissors when Vincent Moretti walked into her salon for the first time. She looked at him, then at the clock. “You’re my emergency appointment?” Vincent glanced toward his assistant. Apparently, he had not expected to be described that way. Emma gestured toward the chair. “Sit.
” He did. That surprised her. Men who looked like Vincent usually carried themselves as though chairs should come to them. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and almost unfairly handsome. Dark hair, sharp masculine features, a deep voice, and an expression suggesting he had been personally disappointed by humanity.
Emma wrapped the cape around him. “What do you want?” “Like it is now.” She waited. “Neater.” Emma examined his hair, then his reflection. “You pay someone to make it look like this.” Vincent’s eyes lifted to hers in the mirror. “Is there a problem?” “No.” She picked up her comb. “If your goal is to look like you’re about to fire the entire planet.
Silence. Emma began trimming. Is that what you do? What? Fire people. Vincent watched her through the mirror. Something like that. Emma nodded. Thought so. He should have been irritated. Instead, the corner of his mouth moved. Then he laughed. Barely. Emma stopped. Oh. What? You can laugh. I laugh. Sure. She resumed cutting.
On national holidays. Vincent looked at her for a long moment. Emma smiled at his reflection. And for the first time in years, Vincent Moretti remembered the name of the person cutting his hair. The appointment ended 40 minutes later. He paid. Emma handed him his coat. Try not to fire anyone until tomorrow. No promises. Then I’ve done what I can.
Vincent left. He had no reason to return for several weeks. He came back 10 days later. Emma saw him enter and immediately said, No. Vincent stopped. No what? You don’t need a haircut. I want it adjusted. Emma walked closer and inspected his hair. Adjusted where? Vincent said nothing. She folded her arms. He looked at her.
Emma’s eyes narrowed. Then understanding appeared. You’re lonely, aren’t you? Vincent stared at her. Emma laughed. Relax. I won’t charge extra for therapy. I am not lonely. Of course. I needed an adjustment. Your hair has grown approximately 3 mm. You measured? I’m a professional. Vincent sat down. Emma shook her head.
But she put the cape around him anyway. That should have been the end of the joke. It wasn’t. Vincent returned again and again. Each time, Emma found less hair that actually needed cutting. Eventually, both of them understood exactly what was happening. Neither admitted it. Emma noticed other things, too. Vincent was quiet, but he listened.
While she worked, he watched the salon through the mirror. One afternoon, a young woman began crying after explaining that medication had caused her hair to thin. Emma did not pity her. She did not offer false promises. She simply sat beside her and quietly explained what could still be done.
Another day, an elderly client asked about an expensive treatment. Emma examined her hair. “You don’t need it.” “But the other salon said they wanted your money.” The woman laughed. “So, you won’t sell it to me?” “No.” “Terrible businesswoman.” “Excellent hairdresser.” Vincent heard that. He also saw Emma step between a new stylist and a wealthy customer who had started humiliating her over a minor mistake.
Emma remained polite, but she did not move. “You can be unhappy with the service.” She looked directly at the customer. “You cannot speak to her like that.” Vincent watched quietly. Emma had no idea he was watching. That mattered. She was not kind because an important man might reward her. She was simply kind.
Then, during another suspiciously unnecessary appointment, the salon door opened. A man walked inside. He spotted Vincent immediately. “There you are.” Emma glanced over. “Your friend is here.” The man stopped, then smiled. “Friend?” Vincent looked at him through the mirror. It was clearly a warning. The man ignored it.
My apologies. He nodded toward Vincent. Boss? Emma’s scissors stopped. Boss? Nobody answered. She looked at Vincent. Boss like company boss. The other man smiled. Not exactly. Marco. Vincent’s voice was low. Marco immediately became interested in the ceiling. Emma looked between them, then back at Vincent. Slowly, her expression changed. Vincent Moretti.
Yes. The Vincent Moretti. Vincent closed his eyes briefly. I dislike that sentence already. Emma lowered the scissors. You’re a mafia boss. A pause. Yes. Emma stared at him, then at the scissors in her hand, then back at his head. You thought that information wasn’t relevant before letting me hold something sharp this close to your neck.
Marco burst out laughing. Vincent closed his eyes again. Emma pointed the scissors toward Marco. Don’t encourage me. Marco raised both hands. I like her. Leave. Yes, boss. Marco walked out, still laughing. Emma slowly turned back toward Vincent. For the first time since meeting him, she looked uncertain. Vincent noticed immediately.
She finished the haircut professionally, but something had changed. Thank you, Mr. Moretti. Vincent looked at her. Vincent. Of course, Mr. Moretti. You weren’t this formal yesterday. Yesterday I thought you sold real estate. I do. Emma stared at him. You also apparently scare politicians. Allegedly. That is not reassuring.
Vincent almost smiled. but over the next few appointments, he noticed something he disliked. Emma measured her words. She hesitated before teasing him. The woman who once told him he looked ready to fire the planet had started thinking before every sentence. Finally, Vincent had enough. “I liked you better when you didn’t know.
” Emma stopped combing his hair. She met his eyes in the mirror. “Why?” Vincent was silent for a moment, then answered honestly. “Because you didn’t look at me before deciding how to speak.” Emma’s expression softened. For once, she had no joke. She understood. People feared Vincent, wanted things from him, tried to impress him, or tried to become useful to him.
Before Emma knew his name, she had done none of those things. She had simply treated him like a man who needed a haircut. Emma picked up her scissors. “All right.” Vincent watched her. “All right.” She tilted his head slightly. “Your hair still doesn’t need cutting.” Vincent’s mouth curved. There she is. Emma smiled, and something between them changed.
Not into love, not yet, but into something neither of them could keep pretending was only about hair. Vincent waited until the end of that appointment. Then he asked, “Dinner?” Emma looked at him. That sounded like an order. Vincent exhaled. “Will you have dinner with me?” “Better.” “Well?” She folded the towel in her hands.
“No.” Vincent became still. Emma waited for the argument. It never came. “All right.” That surprised her. “That’s it?” “You said no.” “Yes.” “I heard you. Emma studied him. A man with Vincent’s power probably heard the word no less often than most people heard their own birthdays. Yet he simply picked up his coat.
Goodnight, Emma. Goodnight. He left. And somehow and somehow his acceptance bothered her more than pressure would have. Because Vincent did not disappear. He also did not punish her. He simply kept showing up. He booked appointments. Only slightly too often now. He talked to her. He listened. And he never mentioned dinner again.
Two weeks later, Emma was finishing his hair when she caught him watching her in the mirror. What? Nothing. Vincent remained silent. Emma narrowed her eyes. If you’re planning another haircut in 6 days, I’m banning you. Nine? Still medically unnecessary. He smiled. Emma removed the cape. Vincent stood. Then paused.
Dinner? She stared at him. We discussed your delivery. His jaw tightened slightly. Will you have dinner with me? Better. Yes or no? Still impatient. Emma. She smiled. Yes. Their first date surprised both of them. Emma had expected luxury. Vincent had expected Emma to be uncomfortable with luxury. Neither happened.
The restaurant was expensive. Emma noticed. Then ordered what she wanted and asked Vincent why he always looked suspicious when reading a dessert menu. I don’t. You do. I’m deciding. You’re interrogating cheesecake. Vincent looked at her. The description is unnecessarily long. Emma laughed. By the third date, they stopped trying to understand why it worked.
Vincent discovered Emma loved romantic comedies with terrible plots. She discovered he had absolutely no patience for fictional misunderstandings. One evening, they watched a movie at Emma’s apartment. The couple on screen had spent 20 minutes refusing to explain something that could have been solved in one sentence.
Vincent frowned. They should talk. Emma slowly turned toward him. What? She smiled. Wow. What? A mafia boss just discovered communication. Vincent gave her a look. Watch the movie. Emma laughed. His texting was worse. Vincent answered questions with, yes, no, fine. Once, Emma sent him three paragraphs about a disastrous day at the salon.
His response was, understood. She immediately called him. Are you approving a merger? No. Then why do you text like that? I answered, you murdered the conversation. What response did you want? I don’t know. Human emotion. There was silence. Then Vincent said, that sounds inefficient. Emma laughed so hard she had to sit down.
Slowly, something deeper grew beneath the jokes. Emma saw the man who existed when nobody was afraid of him. Vincent was observant, protective without constantly interfering, more patient than his reputation suggested, and unexpectedly gentle when he trusted someone. Vincent saw Emma beyond the salon chair. She was beautiful.
He had known that from the beginning, but attraction became stronger because he now knew what lived behind her smile. She cared deeply. She noticed when people were uncomfortable. She remembered tiny details. She also had absolutely no hesitation about threatening his hair when he became arrogant. You wouldn’t.
Emma held up her scissors. Try me. That sounds abusive. It’s professional feedback. He almost laughed. After several dates, Vincent finally stopped booking unnecessary appointments. Emma noticed immediately. Personal growth. I discovered restaurants. I’m proud of you. Then one evening after dinner, Vincent walked her home.
They stopped outside her building. For once, Emma had no joke ready. Vincent looked at her. She knew that look now. He stepped closer. Slowly, his hand settled at her waist. Emma. Yes? May I kiss you? Her expression softened. You’re asking. I was informed That sounds like excellent advice. Emma. Yes. He kissed her. Warm, slow, deliberate.
Emma’s fingers rested against his chest. And for several quiet seconds, Vincent Moretti was not a mafia boss. Emma Parker was not a hairdresser. They were simply two people who had spent weeks finding reasons to remain near each other. When he finally pulled back, Emma looked up at him. Well, Vincent raised an eyebrow.
Well, you’re better at that than texting. I’ll accept the compliment. It wasn’t entirely a compliment. It was close enough. Emma then kissed him again. And that was when the relationship stopped feeling hypothetical. Which was also when people from Vincent’s world began noticing it. Especially Sabrina Vale. Sabrina Vale first met Emma at the salon.
She arrived without an appointment. Beautiful, elegant, perfectly dressed. The kind of woman who looked as though inconvenience had always happened to other people. Emma was cleaning her station when Sabrina approached. You’re Emma? Emma looked up. I am. Sabrina smiled. Your face really is beautiful. Emma paused. Thank you.
You’re remarkably confident, too. Thank you again. Sabrina’s smile tightened. I wasn’t. You should stop. Emma smiled pleasantly. I’m having a wonderful time. Sabrina stared at her. Emma returned to cleaning. So, you do Vincent’s hair. Yes. That’s how you met. Yes. How intimate. Emma looked at her. It’s hair cutting, Sabrina.
A beat. If yours feels intimate, I recommend changing salons. One of the stylists nearby suddenly became extremely interested in folding towels. Sabrina’s expression cooled. You’re funny. I’ve been told. Vincent enjoys that? You should ask Vincent. Emma refused to give her anything else. That irritated Sabrina.
Because Sabrina had expected insecurity. Instead, she found boundaries. Over the next several weeks, Sabrina appeared more often wherever Vincent and Emma happened to be. Her insults remained polished. Never quite direct enough to challenge without sounding sensitive. She commented on Emma’s clothes, her profession, the difference between their worlds, and eventually, her body.
Emma usually handled it herself. Vincent learned not to interrupt unless necessary. Once, after Sabrina walked away, he looked at Emma. You enjoy irritating her. Emma sipped her drink. She starts it. You finish it. I’m a professional at irritating people, at customer service. Vincent smiled. But beneath the humor, Emma’s old fear was returning because she was falling in love with him.
That made the stakes different. Vincent wanted her in the salon, at dinner, in his car, at her apartment. But those were still controlled spaces. Private spaces. Emma remembered another man who had once loved her perfectly until the room became important. Then Vincent invited her to a Moretti family celebration.
Emma looked at him. As your hairdresser? Vincent frowned. No. Good, because your family sounds exhausting. As my date. Her smile faded slightly. Vincent noticed. You don’t have to come. Emma considered that. Then shook her head. No. No? I’m coming. The evening of the celebration, Vincent arrived to pick her up. Emma wore a dark blue dress that followed her curves without apology.
Vincent stared when she opened the door. Emma waited. Well? You look beautiful. That was surprisingly normal. I can make it more complicated. Please don’t. At the Moretti home, Vincent never left her guessing. He introduced her by name. My date, Emma Parker. Not his friend. Not someone he knew. Not the woman who cut his hair.
His date. Emma noticed. So did Sabrina. At first, Sabrina behaved beautifully. Then came the compliments. The questions. The small cuts hidden beneath elegant language. Eventually, she cornered Emma near the edge of the room. You seem comfortable. Emma smiled. I usually am. This must be very different from the salon.
There are fewer hair dryers. Sabrina ignored that. Vincent has always had unusual interests. Emma’s smile disappeared. Sabrina. He might genuinely enjoy someone like you privately. Emma became still. But men like Vincent don’t put women like you beside them when reputation matters. There it was. Not Sabrina’s voice anymore.
Her ex’s. The same wound. The same implication. Good enough to want. Not good enough to claim. Emma looked across the room. Vincent was speaking with several members of his family. Then he saw her. His expression changed immediately. He walked toward them. Sabrina noticed. And smiled. Vincent reached Emma.
His hand moved toward hers. Emma stepped back. If you’re embarrassed by me, don’t touch me. The room around them went quiet. Vincent froze. Emma’s voice shook only slightly. I won’t be the woman you want only when nobody important is watching. Sabrina smiled triumphantly. Vincent stared at Emma. Then slowly turned toward everyone else.
Good. Emma frowned. Vincent looked directly at her. Watch. Before anyone could react, he pulled Emma close and kissed her. Not hurriedly. Not apologetically. And certainly not secretly. When he finally released her, the room was silent. Vincent’s eyes remained on hers. Now ask me if I’m embarrassed. Emma stared at him.
Her heart was pounding. And despite everything, she was still angry. You can’t kiss every problem away. Vincent considered that. I was hoping. No. His mouth twitched. Behind him, Marco muttered, Worth trying. Vincent turned his head. Marco. I said nothing. Emma almost laughed. Almost. Then Vincent became serious again. I went back to that salon when I didn’t need a haircut.
Marco cleared his throat. Many times. Vincent ignored him. I asked her out. He looked at Emma. She said no. Once. Marco nodded. He took it badly. Vincent’s eyes narrowed. Marco. I’m leaving. Nobody moved. Vincent looked around the room, then back at Emma. Emma never asked to enter my world. His voice was calm. I kept entering hers.
The humor disappeared from the room. I wanted her attention. I asked for her time. I was the one inventing reasons to see her. He glanced toward Sabrina. If anyone thinks being seen beside her reduces me, then they have badly misunderstood which one of us I had to convince. Sabrina’s face tightened. She cuts hair, Vincent. Emma opened her mouth.
Vincent answered first. Yes. Nothing else. No apology. No qualification. Sabrina stared at him. Vincent continued. She is also kinder than most people in this room when nobody important is watching. Emma looked at him. She protects people who cannot offer her anything. His voice softened. And she was willing to tell me no before she knew who I was.
Sabrina crossed her arms. This is ridiculous. Emma finally spoke. No. Everyone looked at her. She stepped closer to Sabrina. What’s ridiculous is how badly you need my job, my body, or my bank account to make me feel embarrassed. Sabrina’s expression changed. Emma continued. I like my work. I like myself. And I never asked Vincent to make either one more impressive for you.
Silence. Then Emma turned toward Vincent. But I meant what I said. He nodded. I know. I will not be hidden. You won’t be. And I don’t want a performance every time someone insults me. Vincent glanced around the room. That may disappoint several people. Emma fought a smile. I’m serious. So am I. He stepped closer.
This time he did not touch her. He waited. Emma noticed. Then she took his hand herself. Vincent looked down at their joined hands. Then at her. No secrecy. No hesitation. And for the first time that evening Emma stopped wondering whether she belonged in Vincent’s world. Because she finally understood something more important.
Vincent was not asking her to belong to it. He was choosing to belong beside her. What happened after that night mattered more to Emma than the kiss. Vincent did not turn their relationship into a public campaign. He did not start displaying her simply to prove Sabrina wrong. He just stopped leaving room for doubt.
If Emma attended something with him, he introduced her as his girlfriend. If someone asked what she did, he answered, “She’s a hairdresser.” No hesitation. No explanation. No attempt to make the profession sound more impressive. Emma noticed every time. Eventually, she stopped checking. Sabrina disappeared from their lives without drama.
Vincent did not destroy her family. He did not threaten anyone. He simply stopped entertaining a social connection he had never particularly wanted. And once Vincent stopped caring what Sabrina thought, Emma realized she could do the same. Her life continued. She still opened the salon some mornings, still dealt with demanding clients, still stood for hours, still listened to break-up stories while mixing hair color.
Then one afternoon, the salon owner asked Emma to stay after closing. “I’m stepping back from management.” Emma stared at her. “You’re retiring?” “Partially.” “That sounds suspicious.” The older woman smiled. “I want you to manage the salon.” Emma went quiet. There was more. A salary increase, more control over staffing, and a small profit-sharing percentage.
Not because of Vincent, because Emma had spent years becoming the person clients trusted and co-workers relied on. She accepted. That evening, Vincent arrived while she was cleaning her station. Emma looked at him. “I have news.” “What happened?” “I’m the new salon manager. Vincent smiled immediately. Congratulations.
With profit sharing? His expression became interested. How much ownership? Emma narrowed her eyes. None of your business. I understand business. I understand business. That’s exactly why it’s none of your business. Vincent smiled. Emma pointed at him. And you are not buying anything. I didn’t say I was. You thought it.
I think many things. Think cheaper. He laughed. Then pulled her gently toward him and kissed her forehead. I’m proud of you. Emma softened. Thank you. And for the record, no, I haven’t said anything. You were about to. Vincent looked offended. Emma smiled. I know your face. Their lives gradually settled into something neither had expected.
Vincent became part of the salon’s ordinary routine. Sometimes he brought dinner. Sometimes he arrived before Emma finished her last client. And sometimes one of the most feared men in the city simply sat in a salon chair waiting. The stylists eventually stopped being nervous, mostly. One evening, a stylist looked toward him, then called across the room.
Emma, your boyfriend has been waiting 40 minutes. Emma continued sweeping hair. He’ll survive. From the waiting area came Vincent’s voice. I can hear you. Emma looked over. Excellent. The stylist covered her laugh. Vincent shook his head, but he stayed exactly where he was. That became one of Emma’s favorite things about him.
Vincent could make powerful people wait. For her, he learned how to wait himself. And eventually being with him stopped feeling like something Emma needed to test. It simply felt like her life. Several months later, Emma and Vincent were sitting together after dinner when she asked him a question she had been carrying for a while.
“Did that night bother you?” Vincent looked at her. “What night?” “The family celebration.” His expression changed. “Yes.” Emma had expected hesitation. She had not expected that. “Why?” Vincent was quiet for a moment, then he answered, “Because you thought, even for one second, that I might be ashamed of you.” Emma softened.
Vincent continued, “That meant I hadn’t made myself clear enough.” She studied him. “You made yourself fairly clear afterward.” “I kissed you in front of my entire family.” “Yes.” “That seemed clear.” Emma smiled. “It was dramatic.” “It was efficient.” “You still think kissing solves problems.” “It solved part of that one.
” “Debatable.” Vincent reached for her hand. Emma let him take it. There had been a time when that simple gesture would have made her wonder who was watching. Now, she didn’t think about it. Vincent looked at her. “I love you.” Emma blinked. “That was direct.” “You complain when I’m indirect.” “I complain professionally.
” “You complain recreationally.” Emma laughed. “Also true.” Then she looked at him. Really looked at him. At the man who had once entered her salon because he needed an emergency haircut. The man who returned because he didn’t. The man who had enough power to make rooms change around him, and somehow learned to sit quietly while she finished working.
Emma squeezed his hand. “I love you too. Vincent smiled. No audience. No dramatic declaration. Just them. And somehow that meant even more. Months later, Vincent walked into the salon and sat in Emma’s chair. She came over, examined his hair, then frowned. You don’t need a haircut. I know. Emma looked at him through the mirror.
Then why did you book one? Tradition. She folded her arms. Are you paying for 20 minutes of flirting? Yes. Emma considered that. That is economically responsible. I’m learning. She shook her head and picked up her comb. Vincent watched her. Dinner tonight? Maybe. We live together. And? We’re both going home. Emma looked at him. Still ask.
Vincent paused. Then he understood. Some things mattered because they were chosen repeatedly, not assumed. He tried again. Emma, will you have dinner with me tonight? She smiled. Yes. At that exact moment, Marco walked past the salon entrance. He saw Vincent in the chair, stopped, checked his watch, then frowned. Boss, you had your haircut 9 days ago.
Emma froze. Slowly, she looked at Vincent. Vincent closed his eyes. Marco immediately realized what he had done. Emma’s voice became dangerously calm. 9 days? Marco. Marco took one step backward. I’m leaving. Emma stared at Vincent. You said tradition. It is. You booked a fake haircut. Vincent opened his eyes. I wanted to see you.
Emma threw both hands into the air. We live together. I had a difficult morning. Her laughter stopped. The answer was simple, quiet. Emma looked at him more carefully. And this helps? Vincent held her gaze through the mirror. You always have. For once Emma had nothing clever to say. She leaned down and kissed his cheek, then whispered, “Still charging you.
” Vincent smiled. “I expected nothing less.” Emma straightened and picked up her scissors. The first time Vincent Beretti entered her salon, he genuinely needed a haircut. Now he invented them because the woman standing behind his chair had become the safest part of his life. Emma never became thinner for his world.
She never became a socialite, an heiress, or some carefully redesigned version of herself. She remained Emma Parker, beautiful, curvy, funny, warm, a talented hairdresser with very little patience for Vincent’s ego. And Vincent never loved her because she needed a powerful man to protect her. He first respected her because she possessed dignity when nobody important was rewarding it.
Then he wanted her. Then he pursued her. Then he chose her publicly. And eventually, he loved the fact that she had never needed his world to tell her she mattered. Everyone had assumed Emma should feel lucky that Vincent Moretti wanted her. But by then, the people closest to them understood the truth.
Vincent was the man repeatedly booking appointments he did not need because he could not stay away from her. Emma ran the comb through his hair. “You know I’m barely cutting anything.” “I know.” “You’re wasting money.” I have survived worse investments. She laughed. Then caught his eyes in the mirror. Vincent smiled. And Emma smiled back.
The most powerful man in the room had spent most of his life watching people change when he entered. Emma never had. And that was exactly why he kept coming back.