Bella Rossi Novels & Stories

"Let's give it up... to the Herald of Dexo Fernia, the shadow assassin! The daughter of Hikaris himself… VERONICA!" Chest out, shoulders back, I walked out of the dark and turned my gaze to every corner of the coliseum, and with a devilish grin on my lips, I raised my weapon and they screamed my name… just how I want them to. "And her challenger..." the announcer paused for a while, I crossed my arms and everyone went silent, patiently waiting until, "another daughter of Hikaris, the Mistress of Dexo Fernia, Elspeth!"

My back straightened as I tried to scurry away but he pulled me right back in. Before anybody could say anything Rosa spoke in her sweetly sick honey voice, "It wasn't like that. She was just telling us about her experience in Giannini Cor…" She tried to play the role of a good friend hiding the mistake of her dear friend in a way it was obvious. Before she could end her speech Luca cut her off, "Aren't you the Ginori's girl?" Rosa's eyes sparkled at being recognized and she immediately put on her best smile and continued in a shy manner, "Ye-Yes, I am Rosabella. We met in…"

The air was charged with an unspoken tension, both from Max's unanswered question and the revelation about Kira. Once inside my home, Rosa and I settled into the living room. She hesitated for a moment before speaking, as if carefully choosing her words. "Bella, your parents are Dasilva, right?" "I saw a girl about your age, Selena. She was cursing and looking for someone to uhh, deal with you."

"It's getting creepy." "I wasn't doing anything," I try to defend myself but Luca rolls his eyes. "Okay sure," Luca says and just shakes his head. Translations: Fiore- flower Bella- beautiful Tesoro- darling Ciambelle- donut

She wiggled her brows dramatically. Isabella’s lips twitched. “Was that—Ariana Grande?” Zoe grinned. “Inspired by greatness.” “Maybe,” Isabella teased, “if you actually took more lessons.” They shared a quiet laugh and drifted toward the edge of the crowd. That was when a familiar, smooth voice slipped through the music. “Miss Rossi.” The sound of it was enough to make Isabella’s pulse hitch. She turned — blinking. “Miss de Vries.” Anna de Vries looked like she’d stepped straight out of a painting — a pale satin gown that shimmered every time she breathed, hair swept into an effortless twist, not a single flaw in sight.

He looked like power in motion on his perfectly tailored midnight suit, gold watch catching the light, that effortless smile that made people lean in without even realizing it. Beside him was that strikingly beautiful lady, Bella. “Bryan,” he greeted warmly, shaking my hand with that easy confidence of his. “I want you to meet someone. This is Bella Calamida, CEO of Big Bella. Her fashion line is about to take the West Coast by storm.” She extended her hand, and for a moment, the noise of the gala seemed to fade. Her grip was firm, her nails a perfect shade of crimson, her perfume a mix of vanilla and danger.

Routine disturbances rarely warranted my attention. "What kind of disturbance?" Lorenzo asked before I could speak. "Domestic dispute at Villa Benedetti. Some woman showed up demanding money from one of the residents. Got physical, police were called." Luca shifted uncomfortably. "Thing is, boss, I recognized her from the descriptions we've been circulating. The girl from the Moon Bar—Aria Rossi." "Continue," I said, my voice level. "She was pretty beat up when I saw her. Scraped knees, limping, looked like she'd been crying. Her ex-boyfriend Marco, along with other members of the Benedetti family, told police she was a prostitute who had been stalking him for money."

Soft Mediterranean jazz played from hidden speakers, blending with the gentle crash of waves on the private beach. Isabella Rossi, a 26-year-old Spanish fashion heiress with sun-kissed olive skin, long auburn hair, and a lush, curvaceous figure, stood on the private terrace in a sheer white dress. The fabric clung to her body in the humid air, outlining her hardened nipples and the growing heat between her thighs. She had come for a private escape after Milan Fashion Week. She found something far more consuming. The villa door opened. Marco “The King” Rossi, the world-famous Black Spanish fashion designer and business mogul, stepped onto the terrace. Towering

“Dante’s still out there.” “He won’t be for long.” Alessandro helped her down, his hands gentle as he straightened her clothes. “But tonight, you rest. You’re safe.” She nodded, exhaustion crashing over her. But before she let him lead her out, she grabbed his wrist. “I’m not broken,” she said. He kissed her forehead. “No, bella. You’re rebuilt.” And as they stepped into the night, Livia didn’t look back. She was done being anyone’s trophy. Done being anyone’s wife but her own. She was Livia Rossi. And she was finally, fiercely, herself.

CHAPTER 1 “Where did you go for over three hours now, Janet.” Bella’s voice cut through the quiet salon like a blade. I froze just inside the back door, still holding my jacket. The mirrors along the wall reflected the two of us — me in my usual black jeans and tank top, her in a tight black blouse and pencil skirt that hugged every soft curve of her body. Bella Rossi, thirty-two years, owner of the most expensive salon in the city. My boss and the woman I had been dying to fuck for the last eight months.