The Key To His Heart

The city never truly slept. Not even in the rain. And tonight, the rain was relentless.

The streetlights glistened with reflections of red and gold as water pooled in potholes and gutters. Inside Saint Mercy General Hospital, fluorescent lights buzzed overhead while nurses rushed past with clipboards and IV poles.

The air smelled of bleach and something metallic, the signature scent of too many battles fought between life and death. Joan Rivers leaned over a young man with a gaping wound in his side, speaking softly to keep him calm while she applied pressure to the bleeding. Her brown hair was tied up messily, and her scrubs were wrinkled from the hours she'd spent on her feet.

Her hands, though slim and gentle, moved with confidence. "Stay with me," she whispered. "You're going to be okay." The attending doctor appeared beside her, offering a nod of approval. Joan didn't smile. She rarely did during shifts. Smiles required energy she couldn't afford to spare. Joan's life was a delicate balancing act-her day job as a part-time physician's assistant barely paid the bills, but it was the only flexible work she could find that allowed her to care for her mother. After her mother's stroke two years ago, Joan gave up her full-time residency and moved back into the apartment they shared in one of the city's older neighborhoods. Nurses knew her as capable, calm, and slightly withdrawn. Few knew she came straight from the hospital each night to bathe her mother, feed her, manage the medications, and then catch two hours of sleep before the cycle started again. Her life was built on sacrifice. Quiet, uncelebrated sacrifice. Joan often wondered if anyone truly saw her-not the competent medical worker or the dutiful daughter, but her. The woman beneath all the roles. She had no time to chase dreams or indulge in fantasies. She lived in the real world. And in the real world, people like her didn't have fairy tales. They had responsibility. ⸻ Across the city, on the top floor of the opulent Moretti Tower, a different life played out. Edward Moretti stood on the marble balcony of his penthouse suite, scotch in hand, staring down at the city as though it belonged to him. In many ways, it did. He didn't care for the rain-it reminded him of things he'd tried to forget-but he respected its persistence. A good downpour could wash the filth off even the dirtiest streets. But Edward knew better than to believe it could wash away blood. Behind him, a sleek black leather couch stretched across a room full of muted luxury: art-deco fixtures, a stone fireplace, and walls of glass that gave him a perfect view of the skyline. A low hum of jazz floated from speakers hidden in the ceiling. Edward was not born into wealth. He'd earned everything the hard way-fist first, then gun, then mind. The Moretti name once meant nothing but now commanded fear. Over a decade, he had turned a small-time operation into a sprawling network of clubs, shipping contracts, and underground influence that reached every level of the city. His rise was brutal. Necessary. Strategic. He was a man who didn't blink when orders needed giving, when enemies needed silencing. Love was a liability. Trust was a weakness. Women came and went, but none stayed. He didn't let them. No one got close. Still, sometimes, when the world was quiet and the city's lights blurred behind the rain-streaked windows, Edward felt something like longing. Not for peace, but for stillness. For a moment that didn't require a calculation, a threat, a decision. A moment where he didn't have to be the boss. But those moments were rare. Too dangerous to indulge. His phone buzzed on the glass table behind him. A message from Nico, his most trusted lieutenant. Warehouse secured. Shipment delivered. One casualty-cleanup handled. Edward barely reacted. Business as usual. He downed the rest of his drink, the burn of the scotch grounding him. He would protect his empire. At all costs. No room for softness. No space for complications. ⸻ Joan, meanwhile, had finally returned home, soaked from the dash between the hospital and the old bus stop. Their apartment was on the third floor of a building that hadn't seen renovation since the late 80s. The hallway light flickered. Paint peeled. But it was home. Her mother sat in a reclining chair near the window, a blanket wrapped around her legs, a paperback novel in her lap. She looked up as Joan entered, smiling through the fatigue on her face. "Long night?" her mother asked gently. Joan leaned down and kissed her forehead. "They all are." She set her bag down and checked her mother's medication organizer, then helped her into bed with practiced care. This was her nightly routine. Afterward, she sat in the kitchen with a cup of instant coffee, her thoughts lost in the quiet. She didn't know that less than six miles away, Edward was sitting in his penthouse, pouring himself another drink. That two people, living opposite lives on opposite ends of the city, were both sitting alone in silence, wondering what the next day would bring. Their worlds had no reason to meet. No reason, except fate. Fate didn't care about money, background, or blood. Fate only cared about timing. And the clock had just started ticking.