MR BILLIONAIRE AND HIS ASSISTANT

I LEANED BACK IN MY fancy, ergonomic chair that was supposed to save me a lot of back andneck pain after sitting in it for long hours. It had been a worthy investment and was usually a hugehelp. I had discovered sitting behind a desk all day could be very painful. Who would havethought sitting on one’s ass, staring at numbers and talking on the phone, could be so physicallyand mentally exhausting? I found out the hard way. After the first few weeks on the job, I learned.There was nothing that could fight the fatigue that came from sitting behind a desk for twelvehours a day.

My eyes were tired and my brain was weary.

I rubbed my eyes under my black-rimmed glasses, before righting them and blinking several timesto clear my vision. It was almost seven o’clock and I was all alone in the office. It was nothingnew. I knew it took a lot of hard work and a lot of hours to generate numbers like the ones I waslooking at. I’d been combing through every line of the quarterly profit and loss report since it hitmy desk a couple hours ago.

It was beautiful, and I had no shame in giving myself a well-deserved pat on the back. I earned it.We blew last year’s sales out of the water. I had set targets that were declared unreachable. Iknew better. I knew what we could do, and I had been right. The company was making moneyhand over fist, and I knew it was all because of me and my direction. I had taken my father’scompany and turned it from great to outstanding. It was my hard work and my business sensethat was making the Accardi family name one of the wealthiest in the world.

My self-congratulation was interrupted by a soft knock on the frame of my open office door. Ilooked up to see the elderly office cleaning lady, Miss Jaime, standing there looking at me. Shewas scowling, which told me I was in her way.

“Good evening, Miss Jaime,” I said with a friendly smile, hoping to disarm with my charm.

She stepped inside the office. “Mr. Accardi, you are going to work yourself into an early grave.Why are you still here? You should be out with people your own age, having fun and datingbeautiful women.”

“Jaime, call me Michael please,” I insisted.

“Your father would not want you working so hard. You’re young, have fun and enjoy your lifewhile you still have your health. You know it won’t last forever.” She raised an eyebrow at me.

It was the same lecture she had been giving me for years. Jaime had worked for my father beforeI took over. I had known her since I was an awkward adolescent. She felt more like mygrandmother than the woman who kept our offices clean and tidy. I had hired her several helpersto make her job easier, but she was the only one allowed to clean my office. She was one of thefew people in the world I trusted.

“I’m thirty-two. You make it sound like I’ve got one foot in the grave already,” I retorted.

She mumbled something in Spanish. “It goes by so fast. You young people have no idea.”

“I’m just taking care of a few last-minute things. I’ll be out of your hair soon enough,” I toldher.

She put a hand on her hip and gave me a stern look. “You better, young man, or I will chase youout of here with my vacuum,” she warned.

I laughed, knowing she would do it. She had done it plenty of times in the past.

“I promise, give me ten minutes and then I will be out of your hair.” I promised her with mymost charming smile and a wink for good measure.

She scowled at me. “That cute little smile isn’t going to work on me, mister.”

I chuckled, knowing it had been a futile attempt at charming her.

I watched as she closed the door behind her. I heard the vacuum turn on, and I knew I had verylittle time before she came back in and kicked me out. It was either leave or be asked to moveleft and right while she cleaned around me.

I set the financial report to the side and looked at the sketches I had been working on earlier. Istared at the crude drawing of a watch. I was not an artist. I did not share my father’s talent toimagine a design and put it on paper with perfect detail. I was struggling a bit, but I knew what Iwanted. It was an idea I

had, but I didn’t know how to make it happen. My father was a brilliant man and had started thecompany thirty years ago. His watchmaking business had started out in the living room of the tinyhouse we had lived in when I was a child.

His watches were unique, elegant, and of the highest quality. He had handcrafted every singlewatch in the early years, with no two looking identical. That was then, and this was now. Now,the company was in the business of producing on a much more practical level. Quality was stillwhat the Accardi name was known for, but I wanted to branch out. The more branches thecompany had, the more revenue. I wanted to make so much money that for generations to come,my family wouldn’t have to worry about being poor. I knew my father didn’t share my thoughtson the matter. I couldn’t understand why he didn’t want to make more money. It was one of thosethings I would never understand.

I tapped my pencil against the crude sketch. I would need to take it to the development team.They could take my idea and make it happen. The watch I was attempting to create looked like itcost thousands of dollars, but it would be around the three-hundred-dollar price range. Thatwould open us up to more stores that could carry the line and an entire new customer base. I wasseeing dollar signs, lots of dollar signs.

I flipped the page of my sketchbook and smiled at the other watch face I had created. Alongwith dabbling in the less expensive watch line, I wanted to go back to the early days. I wanted toproduce watches that were made by hand from start to finish. Every diamond would be carefullyplaced. Every detail would be attended to. The quality would be head and shoulders aboveanything else that was out there. The design would ooze wealth and luxury. It would beindulgent and decadent for those who loved to make a statement. Only the wealthiest consumerswould be able to buy from the elite line of watches I was imagining.

With the most recent financial report in the books, I felt confident now was the time to startexpanding the company. I had held off, taking small steps in doing so, wanting to test thewaters. It had paid off. The few stores we had opened were doing well. Sales were continuouslyincreasing. Our company name sold itself. The various jewelry lines we had branched into wereall bringing in the money.

“Okay, Michael ,” Jaime said, opening my door and smiling.

I looked at the clock and realized she’d given me a few extra minutes. “All right, all right, I’mgoing,” I told her, standing up and stuffing the report and sketchbook into my briefcase. I’d workon it tonight when I got home. It wasn’t like I had anything—or anyone—else to do.

I walked to the coatrack and grabbed my tailored suit jacket, sliding it on and then buttoning it. Ididn’t mind relaxing my look when I was alone in the office, but when I walked out those doors,I had an image to uphold. My father had always insisted on Italian suits that were perfectlytailored. They made a man looked refined and well put together. It showed a man who caredabout his appearance, which was important. It was one of the things I had admired about myfather and found myself dressing the same way. I was the new head of the company and I knewhow important tradition was, even if my father and I had differing opinions about the direction ofthe company.

Thinking about my father, I froze. “Oh shit,” I muttered under my breath.

“What’s wrong?” Jaime asked.

“I’ve got to go. I was supposed to have dinner with my dad.” I groaned.

“Don’t leave your father waiting. You better hurry,” she scolded.

I grabbed my briefcase and rushed out the door. I had gotten distracted, caught up in the report,and forgot all about the dinner. I rushed through the lobby of the building our offices were in andnodded at the doorman, not stopping for small talk. I was late—really late. I headed for myMercedes, quickly pulling onto the road and weaving through traffic. I drove straight for the deliwhere my dad used to get his lunch five days a week.

“Good evening, Mr. Accardi.” The old man behind the counter greeted me in his thick Bronxaccent.

“Hi, Gino. Can I get a couple sandwiches?” I asked, not needing to be specific.

He knew the order well. I had been coming by at least once a week and before me, it was my dad.My dad had eaten the same damn thing for lunch almost every single day of his life. Even whenhe had plenty of money in the bank, he chose to eat a crappy sandwich. Okay, maybe thesandwiches weren’t crappy, but they weren’t worthy of eating that often. My dad snubbed some ofthe finer

things in life, like fresh sushi and seafood in general.

“How’s Luca?” he asked as he put together the smoked meat sandwiches.

I shrugged. “He’s doing all right,” I said, not really giving an answer.

I didn’t really know what to say. People in the neighborhood loved my dad. He was a rags-to-riches story and a bit of a hero not only in the Italian community but around the Bronx in general.If only they could see him now. I doubted anyone would recognize him. He certainly wouldn’tknow them—or maybe he would, I mused. With the sandwiches in hand, I hurried out the doorand back in my car. I navigated through the streets of New York City and out of town.

I saw the sprawling estate on my right and flipped on the blinker, drawing in a deep breath forstrength and a lot of patience. I passed the Cedar Creek Assisted Living sign and cringed. I hatedseeing my dad in the home, but it was for the best. He had to be there. I certainly wasn’t able totake care of him in his advanced years.

I parked in one of the visitors spots and raced toward the front doors, checking my watch as Imoved. It was almost eight. Thankfully, the home didn’t enforce visiting hours all that much. Iwalked to reception desk and signed in.

“Good evening, Mr. Accardi.” One of the aides greeted me with a smile.

“Hi, I hope he’s still up,” I said, grimacing.

She nodded. “He’s in his room. He had a good day today.”

My brows shot up. “Really?” I asked, unable to hide my excitement.

“Yep, he was lucid and knew what day it was earlier, but you know how these things go,” shesaid in a kind voice.

I nodded. “I understand. I tried to get here earlier.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it. No one can predict these moments. You’re here now,” she said,reassuring me.

“Thanks,” I said, walking down the hall toward his room.

This moment was always nerve-racking. I knew what to expect, but I couldn’t help but get myhopes up a little. Would he know who I was today?