A short story about the death of Gianni Versace and gives some insight into the Saxons.
14th July 1997
I had just pulled into the driveway of my Miami Beach mansion, relieved to put the work day behind me. It had been a rough week, I lost five employees when my private jet went down over the Haylan mountains, not to mention two of my dearest friends, Senator Carl Dunby and his wife Alice. Alice had always been one of my biggest fans, she jumped at the opportunity when she heard I had a flight heading to Washington. Carl had some big meeting coming up, it wasn't for a couple of days but Alice was happy to have me all to herself for a couple of hours. No one survived the crash, the death toll would have been nine but Alicia, their 10-year-old daughter left a day early to go to a concert and I had some designs that needed adjustments. The high pitched tweeting of my phone pulled me back to reality. Mr. Cunningham, I froze at the sight of the name. Why was he calling me? Did he find out? No, no way. I let the call ring out then I put my phone on silent.
Why was I so worried, there's no way he could have found out, I thought, reassuring myself as I went into the house. Still I couldn't help the feeling of uneasiness, maybe I should have answered the phone.
"Donnatella! I need to talk to you!" I yelled for my sister. "We're in here!" I heard her calling from the dining room. As I entered the room Donnatella sprang up from her chair, she was about to say something but was swiftly inserted back into her seat by the man standing over her. He was a huge fellow, heavyset, maybe 7-ft tall, he was wearing one of my suits. My niece and nephew were seated on the opposite side of the dining table from their mother and two men of similar build hovered behind them. Sitting at the head of the table, with a gun in his hand, was a smaller man. I didn't know his name but I had met him before. He was Italian, like me, but he spoke like he was auditioning for a role in The Godfather. He placed the gun on the table, "Tell me, Gianni, has Mr. Cunningham not been good to you?"
"Y-yes,of course he has," I stuttered, "I don't under- "
"Then why do you insult him!" he shouted, then sighed, " look at your life Gianni, a beautiful home, nice cars, look at all you have accomplished... because of us. All we asked in return, was for you to show a little gratitude, and you spat in our face, in our father's face."
" Please, I'm sorry, it's just the girl..." I fumbled trying to find the right words, "I got Carl and Alice on the plane, the girl... she's just a child, she didn't have to die."
"She didn't have to die? How do you think the other senators are going to react when they realize Mr. Cunningham isn't a man of his word?" He picked up the gun off the table, "buying those concert tickets, was a big mistake Gianni."
"please, at least let my family go, I'll do-"
"No, I'm not going to kill you Gianni, I like you, your a good man. I spoke to Mr. Cunningham and he agreed to give you another chance. Be at your front gate tommorow, 9 o'clock, an associate of mine would come by with your assignment. A life is owed Gianni and the debt must be paid."
They all left after that. Donnatella started yelling at me about what was going on, but after that dilemma I was just too exhausted to get into it and she was too exhausted to force me. All I knew was that moving forward there wasn't going to be anymore screw-ups.
Unfortunately, for Mr. Versace, Mr. Cunningham gave no second chances. Gianni Versace was shot the following morning, on July 15th 1997, at the age of 50. He was in front of his Miami Beach mansion on ocean drive. He was subsequently pronounced dead at the Jackson memorial hospital at 9:21 a.m.