Madison Lucci - Beverly Hell 90210

Copyright 2022 Madison Lucci and Stephen Dreher

Beverly Hell Books

Los Angeles, CA

For information and appearances contact Madison at

For media rights contact Stephen at

M adison Lucci lives and works in Los Angeles. She was the firstborn of the Lucci Quadruplets. The sisters grew up in Beverly Hills to a seemingly successful family, but behind the scenes they suffered long-term abuse and neglect at the hands of a father who loved only his sons. Madison, like her sisters, learned the art of survival, both at home and on the streets. Eventually ending up in foster care at the age of 13, the quads navigated unloving homes and dangerous neighborhoods far from Beverly Hills. Competitiveness, borne out of necessity, led Madison to excel in high school basketball and go on to college. However, the years of physical and psychological harm inflicted by her father fostered an underlying emotional turmoil.

Madison reached a crisis point in 2018 culminating in an overdose, which almost took her life. That episode became a true turning point, inspiring the telling of her story in Beverly Hell 90210. She earned her bachelors degree in sociology from California Polytechnic University Pomona in 2021 while working as a counselor to college foster youth. Madison is currently working in the entertainment and influencer marketing industry. Among the only 3% of foster youth who graduate college, Madison hopes to inspire others to reach for their dreams.

Preface

I am one of the quadruplet daughters born to Jivani and Madalena Lucci in October, 1996. We began life under privileged circumstances in upscale Pacific Palisades and Beverly Hills, California. The four of us were even local celebrities of a sort, seen around town in cute matching outfits and showing up in TV news stories. That existence was not to last. We spent a childhood under a father who treated us to both physical and psychological abuse. Our mother, herself a victim of his control, could offer us little protection. Finally, at the age of 13, we became wards of the State and were placed into foster care. There were good times and bad times, good foster parents and horrific ones. No matter what home I would be put in, there was always the hurt, the emotional hurt inflicted by my father. Even after we were gone, he continued his attempts to ruin our lives, both in our foster homes and with smears on the internet. The journey to healing and success has been hard and probably always will be. But with the help of many, it is happening.

I would like to thank the wonderful people who have helped me both personally and in completing Beverly Hell 90210. Out of concern over my fathers smear tactics, rather than name the individuals, suffice to say you know who you are. I will forever be grateful.

Broken Promises, Broken Lives

S omehow I managed to phone my therapist. After mumbling a few slurred words in a teary voice, I hung up. She was smart enough to call the police. Meanwhile, I had lapsed into semi-consciousness. I vaguely recall the cops and paramedics busting through the door. They kept me awake for the ambulance ride to the hospital, calling my name, slapping my face. I could hear voices, but I lacked the strength to respond. Instead of the emergency room, they wheeled me into the psychiatric ward. A cacophony of tormented voices permeated the halls. I faded out again, thinking I was finished.

I woke from a deep sleep, if thats what one can call coming around from an attempted suicide, surrounded by numerous doctors and nurses. Blood test results had revealed the overdose of Tylenol and alcohol. Now I lay in the Intensive Care Unit. The room was dark and cold, feeling more like a prison than a hospital, not surprising since they had designated me a 5150. Thats short for Section 5150 of the California Welfare and Institutions Code: a danger to myself or others. Under the 5150, authorities may confine a person for 72 hours for further evaluation. A nurse kept watch by the door to make sure I stayed put.

They neednt have worried; I wasnt going anywhere. My eyes were closed most of the time;the eyelids were heavy as anvils. I was floating in a thick fog, surprised to still be among the living. By then, my sisters had joined the medical staff peering down at me, there to offer what support they could. I puked endlessly until my sides were screaming in pain. Ugly yellow bile was all that came up.

Did I want to die? Did I want it all to end right then and there? I had taken pills a lot of pills. Enough, as it turns out, to kill. I had reached my nadir, the despair and pain from a tortured childhood dragging me down. My life had become one of quiet loneliness as if adrift at sea, dissociated from others, my personal isolation. Outwardly, I presented a happy face, like a sad comedian. Maybe I fooled others but no longer myself. My smiles offered me protection from a world I couldnt trust. Though I tried to bury the memory of an unloved childhood, I was never free from it.

On that early summer night in June 2018, I hit rock bottom. Exhausted from my internal struggles, I just wanted out. Still, the slow-acting pills gave me time to reconsider, a brief window to choose life and its possibilities over surrender to abuse. I reached out to save myself.

A day later, the doctors stabilized me. I drifted in and out of slumber, yet I was far from being out of danger. Secondary effects of the overdose took over; the Tylenol was chewing up my liver. Survival once again hung in the balance. Doctors told my sisters to prepare for the worst. They readied plans to transport me to UCLA Medical Center for an emergency transplant. Ironically, the cabernet that washed down the pills also saved my life. The wine absorbed just enough of the Tylenol to prevent it from destroying my liver permanently.

How in the world did I end up here at only 21? On the surface, my life could have been a storybook. I was born in Beverly Hills, California. Many would call me exotic-looking. My mother was a Brazilian beauty who had received modeling offers from Asia and Europe. My father, a Persian, ran a lucrative shipping company and later became a trainer for future pro football quarterbacks. We had a large home, pool, and full-time nannies. Adding to the tale, my sisters and I are rare quadruplets: three identicals (Paris, Tiffany, and me) and a fraternal sister, Bianca. We have three older brothers, Dex, Skyler, and Hunter. To the outside world, the Luccis were living the good life.

The reality was altogether different. To be sure, our brothers were treated well and encouraged to achieve their dreams. Conversely, for the four of us, our childhood and early teens were years of physical and psychological torture at the hands of our father, Jivanni. He deprived us of food and proper medical care. We were regularly beaten, isolated, used, and even publicly humiliated. Wearing cheap and tattered clothing, we often wandered the upscale malls in search of free food samples. We began to appear more like London street urchins than Beverly Hills youngsters.

As time progressed, Madalena rarely ventured beyond her room. Jivannis relentless coercive control combined with her emotional weakness created an isolated, often drugged, shell of a woman. She was unable to nurture or even defend us. Occasional bursts of bravery to leave him would soon dissipate into a meek return. Jivanni was free to deal with us as he wished, as Madalena was powerless to offer a mothers protection.