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CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

ELENA

The harsh, insistent ringing of my phone jolts me from the deep haze of sleep. On the other side of the windows, the city is still dark and quiet—it’s too early for anyone to be calling. My mind and body are both still groggy, and I slide from Victoria’s embrace across the otherwise empty bed as I struggle to reach for my phone on the nightstand. My heart pounds as I squint at the brightness of the screen.

Catlin.

I blink at her name, an anxious wave of energy washing over me as I swipe to answer.

She would never call this early.

Something’s wrong.

“Elena, it’s Conor.” Catlin’s voice cracks through the phone, her words rushed and unsteady. “He… he’s been shot. I don’t know much. I don’t know if he’s okay. It sounded bad when Rory called me. I’m on my way to your apartment. We’ll be there in a few minutes to pick you up and bring you to him.”

My chest tightens, and I struggle to breathe—my body going numb as I struggle to process what Catlin said through the fog of sleep. I don’t know what to do. Or what to say. “Cat… Is he… How bad… Is he?” My whisper breaks, and I can’t bring myself to ask the question because I’m afraid of the answer.

“I don’t know,” she answers, clearly fighting back tears of her own. “I’m on my way. The two of you need to get ready. We’ll figure it out at the club. Just… hurry. We’ll be at the front door in a few minutes.”

She hangs up before I have time to respond. I stare at the screen—frozen as a frantic panic tears at my heart, making it hard to breathe. Conor… Shot… My mind races, trying to process what Catlin told me, but all I can picture is his broad smile. That stupid fucking grin. The cocky bastard who looks at the world like he is invincible.

The apartment is silent except for the sound of my erratic breathing and the thump of my pulse pounding. I throw off the covers, and the cold night air hits my skin, sending a shiver through me. Swinging my legs over the bed, my bare feet hit the floor, and I glance across the bed at Victoria. She’s still sound asleep, her dark chestnut hair splayed across the pillow and her face untouched by the nightmare I’m about to wake her with.

“Vic?” I whisper, my voice trembles as I crawl across the bed to her. I nudge her lightly, and she stirs, blinking as she wakes up. Her eyes flutter open, but she’s still shrouded with sleep. “Wake up, Vic. Something’s happened to Conor. He’s been shot.”

Victoria’s eyes snap open at the mention of his name, the depths of my words registering immediately. With her gaze locked on mine, confusion morphs into panic in an instant. The sheets fall from her body as she bolts upright and stares at me with wide eyes.

“What?” Despite her voice being hoarse with sleep, she’s fully awake. “What happened?”

Blinking rapidly and fighting back the tears welling in my eyes, I struggle to find the words. “I… I don’t know. Catlin called me. He’s been shot. She doesn’t know if he’s okay. They’re bringing him to the club. We have to go. Catlin will be downstairs any minute.”

The color drains from her face, and she hops out of bed, grabbing clothes and robotically pulling them on. The urgency in the air is thick, and the apartment is silent as we rush through the motions of getting dressed. I have to get ready. Catlin is on her way. We have to be ready . I can’t think about Conor right now or the fact that everything might be different tomorrow. I can’t… Every bit of me is focused on one thing—getting to him.

Slipping on my shoes, I glance at Victoria to find her face pale and wearing the same mask of determination as me. We don’t say anything because we know the weight of this moment.

I lace my fingers with hers, squeezing tightly as we wait what feels like an eternity for the elevator to reach the ground floor. With brisk steps, we head outside. The cold air hits me hard when we step onto the street. Even though Catlin’s outside in her SUV, it does nothing to remove the chill coursing through me.

The drive to the club is short but silent except for the hum of the engine. I keep my eyes on the road, focusing on anything but the terrifying images I keep having of Conor—bleeding and fighting for his life—only to watch the city carry on around us as though nothing has happened. Like my whole world hasn’t just been turned upside down.

“Is he going to be okay?” Victoria asks, barely above a whisper.

Wordlessly, I grip her hand tighter, and she glances over at me, showing a side of her I didn’t know existed. Her eyes are teary and full of concern. She looks frail and fragile—nothing like the Madame I’m used to.

The Suburban screeches to a halt in the valet at the front of the club and we jump out. The doors open as we rush toward them. Stepping into the lounge, we both stop dead in our tracks.

Finnigan. Rory.

They are standing before us, and the sight of them causes my stomach to drop and nearly brings me to my knees. They’re covered in blood. Conor’s blood. It’s splattered across their faces, seeped into their clothes, and staining their hands. “Where is he?” I scream, my plea full of desperation.

Finn’s face is tight with pain—his jaw clenched and eyes grim—as he shakes his head. He doesn’t say anything, and it’s somehow worse than hearing the words I’m dreading.

My voice breaking, I demand again, “Where is he?”

“Conor’s in the back,” Rory finally answers, his voice low and heavy. “The doctor is with him. He’s not… It’s not good, Elena.”

“What do you mean, not good ?” I struggle to speak the words through shallow gasps as my eyes dart between Finn and Rory.

Unable to meet my stare, Finn looks away, and I know… It’s not good . Conor might not make it. He doesn’t say it, but I can see it in the way he stands. And in the way Rory stares at me, trying to hold it together.

I need to get to Conor.

Pushing between the two of them, I do the only thing I can. I run.