“I tried reaching out,” I say. “A few old contacts. They’re all scared of him. Of D’Angelo. Of being in the same sentence as either.”
Rafael shrugs one shoulder.
“Fear fades,” he says. “Money doesn’t. When they realize there’s more cash in betting on your comeback than your downfall, they’ll start calling again.”
“And until then?” I ask.
“Until then,” he says, “you lay low. Write. Sleep. Eat something that isn’t villa‑chef perfect. Learn how to be bored without a crisis.”
I look around at the cracked ceilings and humming fridge.
“This is laying low?” I ask.
“Trust me,” he says. “This is luxury compared to some holes I’ve stashed people in.”
Comforting.
He pushes off the table.
“I’ll line up some meetings,” he says. “Quiet ones. Independent labels, streaming curators, anyone with
