March 27, 1995. Maurizio arrived at his Milan office, a glass-and-brass palace of his own making. He was carrying a music box for Paola. The morning light was pale, indifferent. As he climbed the three steps to the entrance, Savioni walked up behind him, calm as a man ordering a coffee.
Patrizia Reggiani, the last true Lady Gucci, flicked a piece of lint off her vintage jacket and smiled a smile as cold as a tombstone. House of Gucci
He wasn’t the dashing, golden-hued Rodolfo, the actor. He was the other one. Maurizio. Quiet. Bookish. He wore his glasses like a shield and his shyness like a tailor-made suit. Patrizia, the daughter of a trucking magnate with a social-climbing heart, saw not a shy man, but a locked door. And she had been born with a set of golden keys. March 27, 1995
But crowns grow heavy. And Maurizio, for the first time, began to resent the architect of his own throne. The morning light was pale, indifferent
“Because,” she said, “my hands are too beautiful for such a thing.”
Two shots to the back. One to the temple. Maurizio fell forward, his blood pooling on the white marble, his glasses askew. The music box shattered, playing a single, tinny note.
The jury was not charmed. They called her “the Black Widow.” She was sentenced to 29 years.