House of Versace: The Untold Story of Genius, Murder, and Survival Read online

  The house was under siege from the media. Television helicopters circled overhead, while dozens of photographers and cameramen camped out on the street, snapping photos of the impromptu shrine of flowers and candles that had sprung up on the front steps where Gianni’s blood had just been washed away. When word spread that Donatella and Santo had arrived, part of the pack shifted to the back door in the alley behind the mansion. Later, when Donatella and Santo prepared to leave for the funeral home, Gianni’s staff dispatched several extra limos as decoys to try to clear the area of paparazzi, but it didn’t work. Bodyguards had to surround them, holding oversized umbrellas to shield them, and a shoving match ensued as the bereaved pair struggled to get into a limo.

  At 5 p.m., Santo, Donatella, and Gianni’s partner, Antonio, arrived at the funeral home, a run-down place in a dreary Miami suburb, to see Gianni for the last time. His face was partially disfigured from the bullets, despite the efforts of the mortician to cover the damage.4 Donatella insisted on dressing Gianni personally, overcoming Santo’s protests. With a dozen bodyguards and police officers standing sentry outside, they conducted a small ceremony in the funeral home’s chapel and then cremated Gianni’s body.

  That evening, the family sat down to dinner. Santo and Donatella had expressed little emotion all day, surrounded as they were with lawyers, PR people, and friends who had filled the house. Gianni’s chef made a simple pasta dish. Afterward he served vanilla budino, an Italian version of flan, which had been Gianni’s favourite dessert. Seeing it, Donatella and Santo broke down and cried5. In the middle of the night, when the media siege had ebbed, Donatella sneaked outside to kiss the spot where Gianni had been shot.

  The next day, Donatella, Santo, and Antonio boarded a flight back to Milan. Santo held the bronze box containing Gianni’s ashes cradled in his lap. The trio spoke little during the long flight home. In Miami, they left behind one of the biggest manhunts ever undertaken in the United States.

  While Donatella and Santo flew back home, the Versace PR office got busy preparing for the funeral. They decided to hold it on Tuesday, July 22, 1997, exactly one week after Gianni’s murder. From Miami, Donatella, reeling in a mix of searing grief and anger over Gianni’s violent death, had decided she wanted to stage a funeral the world would never forget. “Gianni was killed like a stray dog,” she spat at her public relations chief. “I want him to have a funeral fit for a prince.” She directed her assistant to look over films of royal funerals for ideas on how to stage it. She decided that only one site was fitting for her beloved brother’s commemoration: the Duomo, Milan’s magnificent cathedral. Santo initially appeared shocked at his sister’s decision, but he acquiesced.

  While the fashion house was based in Milan, none of the Versaces had particularly liked the city. They had come from Italy’s deep south, a languid, backward, mafia-ridden region that was the antithesis of the ascetic, hardworking north, where meridionali, or southerners, were regarded with suspicion and prejudice. Gianni had always found Milan a sad city, with its brown and gray palette and pinched, conservative people. Like many southerners who moved north in search of opportunity, Gianni respected the Milanese’s Calvinist work ethic, but he nonetheless escaped the city every Thursday evening to spend the weekends on Lake Como. Donatella, with her bleached blond hair and loud clothing, felt that the snobby Milanese looked down on her. Santo also appreciated the opportunity Milan offered him but resented the antisouthern sentiment so common in the city.

  Indeed, Milan’s old-line families had never entirely welcomed the Versaces, with their rough manners, southern accents, and flashy lifestyles. From the time of the postwar economic boom, many Milanese harbored a deep antipathy for southerners like the Versaces, regarding them as corrupt wastrels who lived off the industriousness of the north. By the time of Gianni’s death, this sentiment had found a powerful outlet in the Northern League, a new political party that advocated outright secession from the rest of Italy. To blue-blood Milanese, Gianni’s designs, so popular with the nouveau riche that had emerged with the Milan stock market booms of the 1980s and 1990s, were vulgar and in poor taste. Giorgio Armani, with his cerebral suits, northern heritage, and more discreet homosexuality, was far more acceptable. So, too, was Miuccia Prada, who came from an upstanding Milanese family that had made leather traveling trunks for the city’s upper crust since before the war. But the city’s haute bourgeoisie, with their double-barreled names and their preference for the restrained elegance of French couture, couldn’t fathom the popularity of Gianni’s clothes. Who would dare buy those outfits? All that money the company made, they whispered, could only have come from the mafia.

  So when Donatella demanded that Gianni’s funeral be held in the Duomo, some Milanese found the request outrageous. In recent years, even the cream of the city’s society were no longer afforded a funeral in the Duomo. The church, with a capacity of more than four thousand, was just too big. It was the site of only civic funerals, such as the one for the victims of a mafia bombing in Milan in 1993.

  The world’s third largest Catholic church, the Duomo di Milano is a great, hulking triangle that seems to sink into the square. Erected over the course of six centuries but never fully completed, Milan’s cathedral was originally meant to evoke the airy grace of French Gothic landmarks such as Notre Dame. Instead, it had morphed into a jumble of styles, as one architect after another tried to impose his vision on it. Though impressive in terms of pure size, the church is rather gloomy; it’s so large that even the brightest sunlight doesn’t pierce the stained glass windows enough to lift the penumbra inside. Three rows of Sequoia-sized columns, their pink Candoglia marble gone grayish-yellow with age, make it even more oppressive. But for all its gloominess, the Duomo represents the nostalgic heart of the city for the Milanese. Soaring above the roof is the Madonnina, a four-meter-high gold-plated statue of Mary that is the symbol of Milan. Donatella was demanding nothing short of a state funeral for her brother—a celebration of the truncated life of her sexy, iconoclastic, modern, and subversive brother to be held in the heart of the Italian establishment.

  When Versace’s PR office asked the mayor to forward the Versaces’ request to the city’s cardinal, ecclesiastical authorities worried that the Mass would become a sort of fashion show—cum—gay pride spectacle for a man who had publicly repudiated the Church. Eventually Don Angelo Mayo, the Duomo’s head priest, relented, acceding to the reality that the Duomo was the only site big and grand enough to accommodate the celebrities expected at the funeral.

  The house of Versace produced the funeral as if it were the ultimate fashion show—which it was. Staffers sent invitations to the house’s favorite stars, who were then booked at the Four Seasons, the five-star hotel next door to Versace’s headquarters in the heart of the Via Montenapoleone neighborhood. In the top-floor atelier of Versace headquarters, Gianni’s couture seamstresses pulled out the detailed measurements that recorded the sizes of the house’s favored VIPs. Around the clock, they churned out sober outfits for the female members of the Versace family, as well as for VIPs such as Princess Diana and Naomi Campbell. Assistants then laid out the outfits—complete with handbags, black lace veils, and shoes—in their hotel suites. Seating charts were done and redone as the guests confirmed their attendance.

  Once Don Mayo had agreed to the Mass, the press office managed to secure a series of allowances from the Duomo and the city authorities that surprised many in Milan. They convinced the city to close off the whole length of Via dell’Arcivescovado, the broad avenue that runs along the south side of the cathedral, a concession not even granted to Pope John Paul II during his visit to the city several years earlier. The Duomo canceled two of its eleven daily masses and arranged to clear the church of tourists an hour before the 6 p.m. service. To manage the crowds and protect the luminaries, the city deployed hundreds of extra police officers around the Duomo and in front of Versace headquarters, supplementing the scores of private security personnel hired by the family.
The Duomo agreed to set off about twenty pews in the central nave with wood barriers, to block off access to the VIPs. Rumors instantly circulated that Santo had greased the path with a $500,000 payment to convince the church to hold the Mass; he vehemently denied having paid so much and said that he gave the usual small sum the family would have donated to the church for a funeral.

  By the day of the funeral, the world’s media had descended on Milan. The American networks sent crews from New York, paying thousands of dollars to secure satellite time to transmit live feeds via television trucks parked outside the cathedral. Crews from the BBC, CNN, and Japanese and French television stations had taken rooms in hotels around the Duomo. In an effort to impose a modicum of sobriety to the media melee, the cathedral’s press office told journalists seeking accreditation to dress appropriately: Men had to wear dark suits, and women couldn’t wear dresses exposing their shoulders or too much leg. Inside the church, Versace aides cordoned off an area immediately inside the VIP entrance for the press, so that they would have the best shots of the star-filled front rows. By the time the first guests started to arrive, the journalists had been in place for hours, jostling for the best vantage points.

  In the summer, the Duomo offers refuge from the heat, and guests entering the church for Gianni’s funeral were grateful to step into the dark coolness. The local citizenry entered through the main bronze doors from Piazza del Duomo and quickly filled the entire rear half of the church. Some used plastic bags and purses as placeholders hours before the Mass was to start. Others stood on pews to get a glimpse of the luminaries entering in the front.

  At about 5:30 p.m., a cortege of dark Mercedes pulled up to the designated VIP entrance on Via dell’Arcivescovado. Each VIP held a white embossed invitation. Just like at red-carpet events, photographers and reporters were lined up on the far side of a barrier outside the entrance. A phalanx of gawkers stood under the blazing sun, some wolf-whistling at the prettier models, others reaching out toward celebrities for an autograph, which was nearly always refused. Handsome young men dressed in black Versace suits were deployed just inside the entrance to escort the notables to their pews in front of the altar. To reach the VIP section, attendees had to pass in front of one of the cathedral’s most curious statues: a skeletal St. Bartholomew, his loose skin slung over his back like an empty sack after being flayed alive.

  The press office had made sure the Duomo’s insistence on a sober ritual was respected. (They had instructed friends to make donations to a cancer charity rather than send flowers; Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman gave $25,000.) Several simple arrangements, heavy on the white roses that were among Gianni’s favorite, sat at the base of the pillars on either side of the altar, but the church was otherwise unadorned. The press office had arranged for the family and their closest celebrity guests to dress in black or midnight blue, to avoid any hint of ostentation. Despite the heat, Donatella and Allegra wore black lace veils and long black gloves.

  In the front row, the family was a tableau of grief. Santo, looking drawn and tired, wore a loosely cut black jacket over a dark mock turtleneck and pleated trousers. With his arms crossed and his face stony, he followed the Mass distractedly, occasionally turning to the pew behind him to comfort his distraught eldest child, Francesca. On his right sat his wife, Cristiana. At the far end of the pew, separated by a few significant feet from the other family members, was Antonio D’Amico, clad in a dark suit, black tie, and the white shirt that was worn principally for formal occasions in Italy. D’Amico had been inconsolable over the last week and had found himself almost unable to attend the Mass. His relations with his lover’s family had been strained since the moment he met Gianni at a dinner fifteen years earlier, particularly with Donatella, who resented anyone who competed for her brother’s affection. Now with Gianni gone, neither Santo nor Donatella had to maintain the pretense of getting along with Antonio, and his relationship with them deteriorated quickly. Glassy-eyed, Antonio stared at the floor, clutching his arms in front of him.

  On Santo’s left sat Donatella, shorn of her usual tumble of jewelry, her loose hair covered with a black mantilla and her face only lightly made up, gazing disconsolately into the middle distance, barely following the service. Next to her was Allegra, squirming in the heat under her Empire-style black dress. Allegra was on the cusp of adolescence, still displaying the chipmunk cheeks, baby fat, and polished skin of a healthy child, yet showing the first signs of young womanhood in the self-possessed way she moved. She occasionally struggled to pull her veil back over her sun-flecked chestnut hair, which was held in place by a simple headband. She cried frequently into the white handkerchief an assistant had given her, looking fretfully across to the press photographers snapping pictures of her. She periodically raised her face to her mother for comfort, tilting her head to lay it on Donatella’s shoulder, but her mother stared blank-eyed at the floor. When Allegra broke out in heavy sobs during the reading of the gospel, Donatella stirred, curving her arm around her daughter to pull her close.

  Paul Beck, Donatella’s husband, sat in the pew behind his wife and Santo, clutching his squirming son, Daniel, in his lap, occasionally nuzzling the boy to quiet him. Paul, with his carefully trimmed goatee and highlighted blond hair swept back from a neat middle part, towered over the whole group. His height was rivaled only by that of Naomi, who stood next to him, nearly six feet tall in her heels.

  The supermodel hung her head low, a dark veil falling to her shoulders. She wore a simple black sheath the Versace seamstresses had made for her, topped by a long-sleeved jacket with no lapels, and a large silver cross at her throat. Her long hair hung straight down to her waist, her legs were bare, and she wore unadorned low black pumps. Since Gianni’s death, she’d been inconsolable. After the murder, her London agent had barely been able to convince Naomi to keep an assignment in South Africa for an appearance at a special event with Nelson Mandela. (Mandela personally called the model to talk her out of canceling the trip.) The morning of the funeral, as she ran the gauntlet of the press to reach the Versace palazzo, she’d broken down in tears, clutching her purse to her face to block the flashbulbs.

  By the time of Gianni’s death, Naomi was as close to Donatella as a sister would be—Donatella once flew in a star hairdresser from New York to give them both hair extensions while they ate spaghetti in Donatella’s marble bathroom. Naomi also played the role of an unlikely aunt to Allegra. During the Mass, when Don Mayo invited the congregation to exchange gestures of peace, Allegra embraced her mother first and then stood on tiptoe to receive a hug from Naomi.

  Across the aisle, in the adjacent front row, sat as unlikely a group as one would see in a church. Front and center was Elton John, his pudgy frame swathed in a dark Versace jacket with a Chinese-style high collar. With his single earring and pageboy haircut, he resembled an aging schoolboy. He and his partner, David Furnish, had flown in on his private jet that morning from St. Tropez, where the singer had recently bought a new home. David, fresh-faced in an open-necked white shirt and dark jacket, sat alongside Elton, protectively patting the arm of his lover.

  Elton was one of Gianni’s closest friends and a fierce admirer. They first met in the mid-1980s, when Elton, who already wore Gianni’s designs, was shopping in Versace’s flagship store on Via Montenapoleone in Milan and asked to meet the designer. The two clicked instantly, sharing an artist’s restlessness, and the pair often hit the antiques galleries and auction houses together. At Gianni’s Manhattan townhouse, Elton had his own suite, complete with a bed that Gianni had specially commissioned from the hot New York artist Julian Schnabel. The longtime rock star dressed almost exclusively in Versace. “Elton practically has a museum of my creations in his house,” Gianni once said. “He’s got more pieces in his closet than I have in my archives.”

  Next to Elton sat Gianni Versace’s most famous client, Princess Diana. Elton, who had helped Gianni cultivate a friendship with Diana, had sent his private jet to pick her up from the south of
France, where for the last week, she had been making waves with her first much-publicized holiday with new boyfriend Dodi al-Fayed, the forty-one-year-old son of the billionaire Mohamed al-Fayed, owner of Harrods. About five years earlier, Diana had become arguably Gianni’s biggest trophy when she came to him, newly separated from her husband, Charles, the Prince of Wales, and looking for a sleek new style. Gianni came up with a series of outfits that were classic but possessed a dash of glamour—sheaths that fit like gloves, slim gowns in bold colors, and form-fitting suits. After Diana’s separation, Elton had started inviting her to his spread in Windsor, where she often saw Gianni. Always savvy at cultivating his celebrity clients, Gianni charmed Diana, personally handling some of her fittings. When she heard of Gianni’s murder, Diana had immediately agreed to come to the funeral. She and Gianni had not been close friends, but she was genuinely traumatized by his death. Moreover, Diana loved a good funeral; the pathos appealed to her self-image as comforter of the afflicted, the elegant dark clothing feeding her sense of drama. “Don’t worry,” Diana told Donatella before the funeral. “Gianni is in a better place now.”

  Diana was, of course, wearing a Versace outfit designed for the occasion. Gianni’s seamstresses had whipped up a midnight blue sleeveless sheath topped by a dark jacket. A string of marble-sized pearls set off her summer tan and complemented her sober, doe-eyed gaze and glossy pink lipstick. Despite the heat outside, she wore black stockings. Halfway through the Mass, she shed the dark jacket, unaware of the church’s proscription against uncovered skin. At her feet sat a shiny crocodile purse, embellished with large gilt medusas, the Versace logo. Unable to follow the Mass in Italian, she grew more distracted as the service went on, her hands flitting from the cream-colored missal to her pearls. Gianni’s service would be one of the last public appearances of Diana’s life. Just six weeks later, she would die in a grisly car crash in Paris, and many of the same VIPs would gather once again to commemorate the young princess.