This was mainly due in part to his marriage to Donna, the brain-damaged sister of a former business associate, nearly fifteen years ago. After a rocky start as the owner of a small trading firm that always kept him just below the exquisite lifestyle he desired, his fortune had finally turned for the better. Savota, a self-made businessmen of some distinction now. For the last twelve of those, he’d been employed by one Michael A. Rupert had always been meticulous when it came to his appearance in front of an employer, over the course of his fifty-year professional career as a personal assistant. He smoothed a stray wrinkle from the right breast of his indigo Armani suit with a frown of annoyance, plucking a small gray hair from the same shoulder. “Savota’s inner sanctum, inspecting his habitually immaculate attire one last time.
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