So she chose murder.
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. House of Gucci
Milan, 1978. The air in the Gucci boutique on Via Montenapoleone smelled of opulence: rich leather, cold champagne, and the faint, powdery whisper of wealth. It was here that Patrizia Reggiani, a woman with eyes like cut glass and a laugh that filled every corner, first saw the man who would be her ruin. So she chose murder