Italian Ballerina Novels & Stories

Colorful Butterflies were everywhere around them and finally they the figure of a female standing a little farther away tending to the plants. "Who are you?" Lucifer asked. His memory is telling him that he know this lady. He heard her voice. It is so familiar but he cannot remember her. "I never thought you would forget about me so soon son" she teased him. "Forgive my poor memory, my lady. You must have slipped my mind. Will you please show yourself" he requested softly with respect. "Still very polite I see" she laughed. Lucifer blushed but remained quiet. "How have you been King Darius, or should I call you Prince Azzazal?" She asked, her smile evident in her voice.

Women chased him shamelessly. And I fell. Completely. With no one to catch me. But Matteo had already given his heart away. To Giulia Conti—my half-sister. She had always owned him. Giulia Conti was a celebrated violinist—refined, graceful, and adored in the elite salons of Europe. She performed for aristocrats, royalty, and billionaires, her name whispered with admiration in Milan, Paris, and London alike. On the surface, she was a white swan: delicate, luminous, the very embodiment of femininity.

Why did he feel the need to call them? "Senora Vincelli, it is such an honor to have you here," An older woman says approaching us. She tips her head as a sign of greeting and I'm glad she didn't try to shake my hand or touch me in any way. She must be familiar with people like me or she was warned beforehand "Mr. Bianchi, what a sight for sore eyes" "Mrs. Ballerini, I could say the same thing about you" He turns to me and adds "This is Amara Ballerini. The host of tonight's dinner"

V. The night of the Monticello gala was a masterpiece of glitter and menace, chandeliers shone as brightly like a frozen sun, the ballroom filled with women and high socialites dressed in expensive silk gowns and the men in tailored suits all exchanging smiles that never touched their eyes. Everyone glittered, Everyone lied, Everyone played their role. It’s all fake and we all play a role and so did I. My name is Isotta Monticello, daughter of Domenico Monticello and mafia Princess of the Italian mafia, to the outside of world am a woman groomed to smile like a masterpiece but inside am as sharp as a blade.

Her father had clearly allowed her a lot of freedom. That has stopped now. I looked at Tina. — I need to speak to Signorina Mancini. Would you mind taking your assistants to the kitchen? Zia will serve coffee and biscotti. — Of course, beautiful. — Tina led her team out of the ballroom and Marco disappeared too. So we were alone. Walking over to the dresses, I slowly examined them. Tina was Italy's most sought-after wedding dress designer, and each dress was unique. There were four racks of at least fifteen dresses each. Lots for Francesca to choose from.

Elena frowned at the sheer amount, but I caught the flicker of admiration in her eyes. "Oh! My goodness, is that the ballerina?" An elderly woman cried as I opened the back door for Elena. "That’s the ballerina from the magazine!" Three older women with arms loaded with shopping bags gawked at her, and Elena turned red as a tomato. "Yes! She’s the Prima Ballerina of New York," another confirmed. They scuttled toward her, excitement spilling from them. Elena’s face was quickly obscured by a mask, and I couldn’t read her expressions anymore but I could feel the tension in the air. Their excitement drew a small crowd who watched in awe.

Inside the opulent observation carriage, mahogany panels glowed under crystal chandeliers, thick velvet drapes framed the floor-to-ceiling glass dome, and the rhythmic clack-clack-clack of the wheels on the tracks vibrated through every surface — a constant, throbbing reminder of motion, of inevitability. Valentina Rossi, 29, the world’s most celebrated prima ballerina, had booked the entire carriage seeking solitude after a punishing season. Her body was a masterpiece of discipline — long, lithe limbs, elegant muscle, skin like warm porcelain. But tonight, something inside her was fracturing.

I just can't seem to get rid of them all at once. I let my hair down and when I was satisfied with how I looked. I left my room. I was about to walk straight down the stairs when I met Italia. With her six-inch corset stilettos on, I don't have an idea as to why she's running like an athlete, competing for a gold medal in the Olympics. She even forgot about maintaining her poise which is weird. Italia Devonaire never lost her poise. "Have you seen the news article?" She asked me breathlessly. My forehead crumpled, addled with her unclear question, I shook my head in response.

I asked her, pointing out her exposed cleavage. "Pretend you don't like it, Mr.Valentine" She said taking another sip of her martini. "Come on, Bella. Grant me a dance?" Taking her drink out of her hand, grabbing her by her waist I brought her closer to me. "Si, signore" She complied. Trying to hold back my surprise of her knowing Italian, I led her to the dance floor.

The grand ballroom shimmered with a glow that could only be described as dangerous, too perfect, too polished, hiding the serpents slithering just beneath its golden surface. Talana’s fingers were laced through Massimo’s, but even that connection couldn’t quiet the fire curling in her chest. Chiara Bellini, That name had always stirred something in Talana, long before she knew the depths of her cruelty. Now, seeing her in full armor, that silver dress clinging to every deliberate curve, Talana’s instincts were screaming.