The House of Gucci

by Sara G Forden

  “Dottore! There is no time!” Luigi said. “The finanza is waiting for you in Via Monte Napoleone! You must leave or they will arrest you. Come with me, NOW!”

  When Luigi had gone to wait for Maurizio at his Monte Napoleone office after lunch, the portinaio downstairs had blocked him at the entrance and nervously pulled him aside before he could take the elevator up to the fourth floor.

  “Signor Luigi!” the doorman had whispered. “Lassù c’è la finanza! Vogliono il Dottor Maurizio!” he said, describing the group of uniformed financial police that had gone up to Maurizio’s office just minutes before. The Guardia di Finanza, Italy’s fiscal police, is an armed police corps that specializes in financial crimes—primarily those against the state, such as tax evasion or disrespect of other financial norms. Just the sight of their gray uniforms and hats with yellow flame symbol is enough to make most Italians tremble and try to slip out of sight. Italians view finanza officers with far more trepidation than the regular blue-uniformed polizia or the carabinieri, who wear a characteristic red stripe down each pant leg and are the target for derisive Italian jokes.

  Luigi knew exactly why the finanza had come. Maurizio had told him all about Paolo’s accusations, the early-morning raid in the Galleria Passarella apartment the year before, and the December attempt to sequester his Gucci shares. Through his lawyers, Maurizio knew that prosecutors were preparing a warrant for his arrest as a result of the campaigns against him by his uncle Aldo, Paolo, and his cousins. When he could, Maurizio spent time out of the country, and when in Milan, he varied his daily patterns. Often during the past few months, Maurizio had asked Luigi to drive him out to little-known trattorias in the Brianza countryside north of Milan, where the two of them shared lonely dinners of steaming spaghetti and steak filetti before checking into small local hotels for the night because Maurizio was afraid of returning to the residence in Milan where he had been living since he left home. He knew that Italian law enforcement officials habitually arrested their suspects at dawn, when they were sure to find them at home in bed, asleep. Sometimes, not finding a room for the night, they even slept in the car. Nervous and lonely, Maurizio confided in Luigi, who spent night after night away from his own family in order to keep Maurizio company. Sometimes, late at night when he couldn’t sleep, Maurizio even called Patrizia to share his worries with her. Now the moment Maurizio feared had arrived.

  The minute Luigi heard that the finanza was waiting for Maurizio in his office, he had turned on his heel and rushed down the street toward Bagutta, the homey trattoria nearby that was still filled with the colorful oil paintings and sketches by its patrons of years gone by. No longer a hangout for the literary and artistic set, Bagutta now catered to the business elite of Milan’s so-called golden triangle—the chic shopping streets that surrounded it. Bagutta had served Gucci managers and their patrons cotolette alla milanese and other local specialties for nearly forty years. Luigi knew Maurizio had lunched there with Pilone. However, when he slipped through the bristled strands of rope hanging in the doorway to keep out flies, the smiling, black-suited maître d’ told him Maurizio and Pilone had already left. Luigi guessed they might have gone to Panzarini’s office several blocks away.

  Upon hearing Luigi’s words, Maurizio turned and raised his eyebrows at Pilone and Panzarini, then bolted out the door after his driver. Still in good shape from the tennis playing, horseback riding, and skiing he loved but had little time for, he bounded down the back stairs of the office building after Luigi two steps at a time, heart pounding. They jumped into the car Luigi had pulled around to the back in case anyone came looking for Maurizio. Luigi drove the few blocks to Foro Bonaparte, where Maurizio kept his cars and motorcycles in a garage under the residence. Luigi handed him the keys to the biggest bike, a powerful red Kawasaki GPZ, and a helmet.

  “Put this on—no one will recognize you—drive like hell and don’t stop until you cross the Swiss border. I will follow you later with your things,” Luigi said. Once he was in Switzerland, Maurizio was safe—Swiss officials would not extradite Maurizio for financial crimes.

  “Keep your helmet on at the Swiss border, DON’T let them see who you are,” Luigi instructed him. “Pretend to be relaxed; if they ask, just say you are going to your residence in Saint Moritz. Don’t act suspicious, but be swift!”

  His heart racing faster than the red Kawasaki he straddled, Maurizio reached the Swiss border at Lugano in less than an hour. He slowed the bike’s thundering motor as he approached the guard station, keeping his helmet on as Luigi had advised. After the border guards waved him through with no more than a glance at his passport, he opened up the motor again as he nosed the Kawasaki back onto the highway that would take him north to Saint Moritz—although it was the longer route, the shortest itinerary would have taken him back across the wandering Swiss frontier into Italy, and he couldn’t risk being stopped. Little more than two hours later Maurizio pulled the bike into the drive at his Saint Moritz estate, shaking.

  After Maurizio fled Milan on the red Kawasaki, Luigi had gone back to the Via Monte Napoleone office, where the finanza officials were still waiting in vain for the Gucci chairman. Luigi pretended he too was looking for Maurizio and asked them what they wanted.

  Luigi had been right. The officials in Maurizio’s office had an arrest warrant issued by Milan magistrate Ubaldo Nannucci charging Maurizio Gucci with the illegal export of capital in buying the Creole. Italy’s financial markets had not yet been liberalized and it was still illegal to move significant sums of money overseas. Despite the fact that Maurizio was a Swiss resident and the Creole flew the British flag, Paolo had achieved his objective. Maurizio was out of Italy—far from the daily operations of his company—and his hands were tied.

  The next day, Wednesday, June 24, 1987, the papers blazed the shocking news: “Gucci in a storm over a dream yacht: arrest warrants issued,” cried Italian daily La Repubblica. “Maurizio Gucci flees arrest.”

  Likewise, Rome’s Il Messaggero screamed, “Handcuffs for the ‘Gucci Dynasty,’” and Milan’s Corriere della Sera trumpeted, “The Creole betrayed Maurizio Gucci.”

  Gian Vittorio Pilone and his brother-in-law were also charged in the case, but Pilone was the least fortunate of the three—police arrested him and held him in Florence’s Sollicciano jail, near Gucci’s Scandicci headquarters, for three days of questioning. Like Maurizio, Pilone’s brother-in-law also fled in time, avoiding arrest. As Maurizio watched helplessly from his Swiss exile, two months later a Milan court took control of his 50 percent stake in Gucci and appointed a university professor, Maria Martellini, as company chairman in his place.

  For the next twelve months, Maurizio lived in Swiss exile, moving between his Saint Moritz estate and Lugano’s best hotel—the lakefront Splendide Royal—which he made his new operational base when he wasn’t traveling. Lugano, an attractive Swiss town on Lake Lugano, lies in a pocket of Switzerland that extends deeply into Italy between Lago Maggiore and Lago di Como. Its proximity to Milan made it a beacon for city residents who often traveled to Lugano for its lower priced gas and groceries, efficient postal service, and discreet banking system. For Maurizio, the city offered a comfortable and convenient exile—he could summon his managers up from Italy for reports about Martellini’s reign and easily drive up to Saint Moritz for weekends. Maurizio pleaded with Patrizia to bring the girls to Lugano so he could see them, but she inevitably came up with a last-minute reason to cancel. During Maurizio’s first Christmas in exile, Patrizia promised that the girls could come, and he spent the morning of December 24 scouring the toy shops of Lugano for gifts for Alessandra and Allegra, whom Patrizia had agreed to send up with Luigi that afternoon. But when Luigi rang the doorbell in Galleria Passarella a few hours later, the maid answered, saying the girls weren’t permitted to go with him.

  “What could I do?” Luigi said later. “I couldn’t bear to go back to Maurizio empty-handed, but the girls weren’t allowed to come out with me.” On the dr
ive back to Lugano, Luigi stopped to call Maurizio with the news.

  “When I returned to him that evening, he cried,” said Luigi sadly. That was the beginning of what Luigi called Maurizio’s “periodo sbagliato,” a time when everything seemed to go wrong.

  The one ray of sunshine in Maurizio’s life came from a tall American blonde from Tampa, Florida, a former model named Sheree McLaughlin. Maurizio had met her back in 1984 during one of the America’s Cup runoff races in Sardinia. Lanky and athletic, with china blue eyes, streaked blond Farrah Fawcett haircut, and ready smile, Sheree responded to Maurizio’s good looks and exuberant charm. Patrizia, who participated in some of the Italia team dinners and events, had immediately noticed Maurizio’s interest in the girl. She let him know exactly what she thought about it. After Maurizio left home, he began to see Sheree regularly as they both traveled back and forth between Italy and New York. Sheree was one of the few people in Maurizio’s life who truly cared about him—more than his money or his last name. If he was tied up in meetings when Sheree was in town, he would thrust some bills into Luigi’s hand and instruct his driver to take Sheree shopping at Milan’s designer boutiques. As Luigi navigated Maurizio’s black Mercedes deftly amid the city center traffic, he tried hard to communicate with her—though neither spoke the other’s language.

  “Luigi, why does Maurizio want to buy me all these things?” Sheree would ask him plaintively. “I don’t need fancy dresses. All I need is a pair of blue jeans and to spend time with him,” she would say. After Maurizio fled Milan, Sheree met him in Lugano, or slipped up to Saint Moritz for a weekend when Maurizio was sure Patrizia wasn’t using the estate. Sheree loved Maurizio and wanted to build a new life with him—but Maurizio wasn’t ready. Absorbed with his personal and professional problems, he didn’t feel he could make a commitment to her.

  When Sheree was away, during the long days and evenings that Maurizio was alone, he threw himself into a thorough study of Gucci’s past, writing the monograph that would become his blueprint for relaunching the Gucci name.

  Maurizio may have been held at arm’s length by the arrest warrant, but he hadn’t been immobilized. He also kept busy furnishing the Gucci Room at Mosimann’s, an exclusive London dining club operated by the acclaimed Swiss chef Anton Mosimann. Maurizio did the room in grand style, with his favorite Empire antiques, green Gucci print fabric on the walls, and one-of-a-kind period chandeliers and light fixtures. The effort cost a small fortune—sending Gucci’s custodial chairman Maria Martellini into fits when she saw the bills, which of course were sent directly to Gucci headquarters.

  A tall, bearded man named Enrico Cucchiani became Maurizio’s chief representative in Milan, ferrying documents, messages, and instructions back and forth between Gucci’s Via Monte Napoleone offices and Lugano’s Hotel Splendide Royal. Maurizio had hired Cucchiani just a few months earlier from the McKinsey & Company, Inc., consulting firm to become the new managing director of Gucci.

  Earlier that spring, before his exile, Maurizio had confided in Cucchiani about the seriousness of the attacks he knew Aldo and his sons were preparing against him.

  “My family is hopeless!” Maurizio had said to Cucchiani one day, pacing back and forth in front of his desk in his Via Monte Napoleone office. “I have tried to work with them, but every time I take one step forward, one of them goes off and does something that has nothing to do with anything else we are trying to do. And now they are waging war against me!” he said, pushing his tortoiseshell glasses back up on his nose with his middle finger in a characteristic gesture. Maurizio turned to look at Cucchiani. A soft-spoken man with long limbs and slender hands and gray beard, Cucchiani crossed one leg over the other as he sat in one of the two Biedermeier chairs facing Maurizio’s desk. He stroked his beard with the thumb and forefinger of one hand, listening to his boss.

  “We have to find a way to buy them out!” said Maurizio.

  Cucchiani had called an investment banker he knew who worked for Morgan Stanley in London, a man named Andrea Morante. Cucchiani asked him if he would like to meet Maurizio Gucci, but stressed that any encounter must be kept highly confidential given the high level of conflict within the Gucci family. Morante, a clever, analytical man who had parlayed his Italian roots and financial skills into a successful investment banking career, was immediately intrigued. Gucci was more than just another dynamic, medium-sized Italian company with a succession problem; there were many companies with succession problems. Gucci stood for glamour, luxury, and untapped earnings potential—an investment banker’s dream. Morante agreed to meet Maurizio in Milan the following week.

  When he arrived, Maurizio greeted Morante at the door of his Milan office and cordially invited him in, needing only a few seconds to size up some important details about his visitor. He was an attractive man of medium weight and height, with intelligent blue eyes and graying hair he kept clipped close around his head. Morante had put on his best suit for the occasion and an Hermès tie.

  “I am very pleased to meet you, Mr. Morante,” Maurizio said with a twinkle in his eye, “even if you are wearing the wrong tie!” Morante shot the young Gucci executive a probing look, then broke into an easy laugh. He liked Maurizio immediately. The glint in Maurizio’s eye and his gentle reprimand had put Morante immediately at ease. Over the next few months he would come to admire Maurizio’s talent for starting important business meetings with a joke that made everybody feel more relaxed. Morante sat back and glanced around the room, taking in the honey-colored Biedermeier furniture, the graceful green leather couch studded with red leather buttons, and the black-and-white glamour shots of Maurizio’s parents from their film days. Morante’s eyes lingered on Maurizio’s beautiful desk, and the antique crystal liquor decanters and silver drinking glasses arrayed on a gleaming console against the wall. To Maurizio’s left, light streamed into the room from two windows that looked out on a small balcony running the length of the outside wall. Maurizio carried the conversation from the beginning.

  “You see, Mr. Morante,” he said, “Gucci is like a restaurant with five different cooks from five different nations—the menu is five pages long and if you don’t like pizza you can have spring rolls. The customer is confused, the kitchen is a mess!” he exclaimed, raising his arms dramatically. The formal patina he often put on for strangers wore off as he warmed to Morante.

  From behind his aviator glasses, Maurizio’s blue eyes studied the investment banker’s reaction. Morante nodded, listened, and said little as he tried to figure out what Maurizio was after, and where he—Morante—fit in. Morante had joined Morgan Stanley in 1985 with responsibility for the Italian market and had immediately started work on a major deal—an attempt by Italian tire manufacturer Pirelli to buy U.S. tire giant Firestone. The takeover subsequently failed and Firestone was later acquired by Bridgestone. An international family background and conceptual mind gave him an unusual approach to the investment banking business, where he wasn’t afraid to develop creative solutions to the problems of succession and growth plaguing many leading Italian companies. Morante’s father, a naval officer from Naples, had met his mother when his ship put into port in Shanghai, where she had been born to Milanese parents. The family had lived all over Italy and abroad in Washington, D.C., and Iran. Morante had studied economics in Italy and completed an MBA at the University of Kansas in Lawrence before moving to London to start his career.

  “We have one more chance to recover the Gucci customer, and that is to provide him with product, service, consistency, and image,” Maurizio was saying. “If we can do it correctly, the money will flow in significant quantities. We have a Ferrari…but we are driving it like a Cinquecento!” he said, using his pet metaphor. “I can’t enter a Formula One race unless I have the right car, the right driver, top mechanics, and plenty of spare parts. Do you see my point?”

  Morante didn’t. When Maurizio ushered him to the door more than an hour later, he still hadn’t revealed the real purpose of the meeting
. Later that day, Morante called Cucchiani to ask him what he should think.

  “Don’t worry, Andrea; that is typical of Maurizio,” Cucchiani said. “The meeting went very well. He liked you. We should set another meeting, as soon as possible.”

  The following week, Maurizio, Cucchiani, and Morante met for breakfast at the Hotel Duca, where Morante customarily stayed during his visits to Milan. The hotel stood in a lineup of other large business hotels set back off Via Vittor Pisani, a wide avenue that led to the city’s central train station.

  This time, as waiters moved quietly around the tables and the high-ceilinged room filled with the sounds of murmured conversations and clinking glasses and china, Maurizio came quickly to the point. He had liked Morante immediately and decided to trust him. But instead of displaying his usual breezy optimism, he seemed nervous and pressed.

  “My relatives are undermining everything I want to do,” Maurizio had said earnestly to Morante, leaning forward in his chair. “Florence has become a swamp where all initiatives flounder. Now they are starting a campaign against me. I must either buy them out or sell my own holdings. Things cannot go on like this.”

  Morante realized that somewhere in the story there was a mandate for him to buy or to sell. Cucchiani looked over at Morante with a meaningful “You see? I told you so!” glance.

  “Dottor Gucci, do you think your cousins might be willing to sell their Gucci shares?” Morante asked in his resonant, musical voice.

  “Not to me,” Maurizio said, laughing and sitting back in his chair and resting his hands on its arms. “For them it would be like agreeing to marry off their beautiful daughter to a monster!” What Maurizio didn’t say, but Morante quickly figured out, was that Maurizio didn’t have the money to buy out his relatives even if they would sell to him. “But under certain circumstances”—Maurizio’s voice grew serious—“their shares might be purchased.”