Ch 50: Rising from the Depths
Darkness. Cold.
Her body floated in the void. There was no up, no down, no light—only the terrible, crushing pressure attacking from all sides.
Why can't I breathe? The thought floated through her mind, distant and disconnected.
She couldn't tell her eyes were open or closed. Everything was black. Everything was cold.
I'm dead, she thought. The crate crushed me.
But death shouldn't hurt this much. Death shouldn't sting. Death shouldn't feel like her lungs were filling with—
Water?
The realization hit her then. She wasn't dead; she was underwater. The crate hadn't crushed her. At the last moment, Alessandro had pushed her into the ocean. At some point, the loose ropes unraveled itself.
But even when her hands are free, she didn't know which way was up. The water was an icy depth that gave no hint of direction. The current tugged at her, spinning her, dragging her, mocking every desperate kick.
Her mouth opened on instinct, and icy water surged in, becoming a choking flood. Her chest convulsed, lungs screaming for air she couldn’t reach. Her thrashing grew more desperate, more chaotic.
A hand closed around the back of her tank top and pulled.
The surface broke over her head. She gasped and immediately inhaled water. Her body convulsed—coughing, gagging—expelling the water from her lungs in violent spasms. The grey sky above her spun as she wheezed between coughing fits.
"Don't struggle." Alessandro's voice, rough. "I've got you. Just breathe."
His hands slid under her armpits from behind and gripped her shoulders, keeping her head above water. His legs kicked beneath them both, powerful and rhythmic, propelling them through the choppy waves.
Elena didn't resist. She couldn't swim; she had already confirmed that. Thrashing now would only drag them both under. Her hands found his forearms, her frozen fingers digging into the wet fabric, desperate for warmth and something to hold onto. Her teeth chattered.
Alessandro swam steadily away from the ship toward the distant shoreline.
Elena, worried about Kazimir, craned her neck to catch a glimpse of the chaos. The deck was alive with muzzle flashes. Conti soldiers were firing toward the dock. But they weren't firing alone: Return fire came from the warehouses and behind the rusted cranes.
Hope flared in her chest. Kazimir didn't come alone. He brought soldiers and hid them out of sight.
A bullet ricocheted off the ship's hull somewhere above her, a sharp ping on the metal. She flinched, her body jerking in Alessandro's grip.
The violence was everywhere now—Conti soldiers firing at the dock, Volkov men firing back from the warehouses. A full-scale battle had erupted in the space of seconds.
Was it because of the crate?
She replayed the moment: the shadow swallowing her, Alessandro's body slamming into hers as he tackled her off the platform. The crate had fallen on where she knelt—where Alessandro stood beside her.
Elena wasn't surprised that Dante wanted to kill her. She was leverage—a way to break Kazimir. Her death would serve his purposes.
But Alessandro? The only son and heir of Emilio Conti—Dante's own partner?
He was willing to sacrifice us both.
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No, it wasn't just willingness. It was intention. Dante had given the signal knowing the result: If the crate killed Elena, Kazimir would blame the Contis for murdering her and tear them apart. If the crate killed Alessandro, Dante would guide Don Emilio to the conclusion he wanted: Kazimir had ordered the strike. Emilio Conti would then try to kill Kazimir for revenge.
Two birds, one stone. One falling crate.
And Dante? She caught a glimpse of the pier as Alessandro swam—a black car pulling away, flanked by Dante's personal guards. The silver-haired fox had slipped away while the wolves were busy tearing each other apart.
He's reaping both sides. He wants to kill us all.
A wave slapped her face, interrupting her thoughts and filling her nose with salt. She sputtered and coughed.
Alessandro's arms tightened. "Almost there," he panted. "Hold on."
The shoreline materialized through the grey mist—a narrow stretch of rocky beach between two crumbling warehouses. A pile of sandbags, remnants of some flood prevention effort, created a low barrier against the water's edge. Alessandro's strokes grew more desperate as they neared, his breath ragged, his body trembling against hers with exhaustion and cold.
Her feet touched the bottom, but she was still too weak to walk. Alessandro half-carried, half-dragged her through the shallows. They collapsed together behind the sandbags, gasping, shivering.
The gunfire continued in the distance. Somewhere nearby, a man screamed in pain.
Elena pressed her back against the rough burlaps and forced her chattering teeth to still. She turned her head to look at Alessandro. He sat beside her, his back against the sandbags, his chest heaving. His dark hair was plastered to his skull. His lips were blue. His hands, braced on his knees, trembled visibly.
She raised her shaking hands and gave him a clumsy shove. ‘Whose side are you on now?’
Alessandro met her eyes but didn't answer.
Gunfire crackled. A bullet struck the warehouse wall above them, showering them with brick dust.
Somewhere to their left, a man cursed in Italian.
Elena's hand flew to her back pocket, fingers closing around the handle of her dagger. Beside her, Alessandro patted his pockets—empty.
A figure emerged from behind the corner of the warehouse, rifle raised, sweeping the area.
Elena recognized him immediately, waving her hand. 'Lieutenant Ruslan!'
His eyes found hers across the stretch of sandbags and widened in disbelief. "Mrs. Volkov? Is that you?"
Ruslan moved toward them in a crouch, keeping low behind the sandbags. When he got closer, he spotted Alessandro—and his expression hardened.
"You!" The rifle barrel swung toward Alessandro's chest. "Arlo! You traitor! You were Dante's man all along, weren't you? This whole time, you were the rat selling us out!"
Alessandro didn't move. His hands remained visible on his knees. His dark eyes met the lieutenant's calmly. "It's more complicated than that."
Ruslan snickered. His finger rested on the trigger, not quite squeezing, but close.
"Complicated? You drugged Kazimir's wife. You delivered her to his enemies. You stood on that platform while they pointed rifles at her head. What's complicated about that? Do I look senile?"
Elena lifted a hand and redirected the barrel to the side, ‘Stop.’
Ruslan looked at her and frowned. "Mrs. Volkov, he's the traitor!"
'He saved me. Twice. Without him, I’d be crushed by the crate or drowned.’
The lieutenant's eyes narrowed. “He could’ve been saving his own skin,” he said. “That crate was falling on him too.”
Elena shook her head. ‘He had opportunities. Weeks. Months. He could’ve killed Kazimir. But he didn’t.’ She paused. ‘The ballroom—that was him. But every other time, he chose us.’
Something shifted in the lieutenant's expression. His jaw clenched. He stared at Alessandro, searching. Alessandro met his gaze without flinching or pleading.
Ruslan sighed. "Kazimir will decide what to do with you," he said finally. "If you lie again, I'll put a bullet in your skull myself."
Alessandro inclined his head.
The lieutenant looked at Elena’s dagger. "Would you like a gun, Mrs. Volkov?"
Elena nodded.
He reached into his ankle holster and drew a compact pistol. He checked the safety and held it out, grip first. "Is this okay?"
She took it. The weight was familiar—Kazimir had taught her with a similar model. She nodded once.
"Stay behind cover," Ruslan said. "Timothy's pushing toward the east warehouse. We're regrouping there. Can you run?"
Elena glanced at Alessandro. He was already rising, stiff but steady.
She turned to the lieutenant and nodded. ‘We're ready.’
Without another word, the three of them moved out from behind the sandbags and into the chaos of the harbor.
Last edited by Feiya Phia 5/20/26