The Key To His Heart

ot even in the rain. And toni

in potholes and gutters. Inside Saint Mercy General Hospital, fluorescent l

an Rivers leaned over a young man with a gaping wound in his side, speaking softly to keep him calm while she applied pressu

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 lieu