He nodded like that made perfect sense. Like he'd been expecting exactly that answer. “London can do that to you. Too much history, too much weight. Sometimes you need distance to remember who you are.”
“Yeah, exactly that.”
“You staying with family?”
My jaw tightened. “Stepfather. It's complicated.”
“Stepfathers usually are. My father remarried when I was young. His new wife was fine. Her presence in my life was not. Took me years to figure out it wasn't about her. It was about what she represented.”
“What's that?”
“That life moved on without asking permission. That grief doesn't wait for you to be ready before it demands you keep living anyway.” He took a slow drink. “Your mother passed, right? When you were young?”
“Fifteen,” I said.
“Fuck. That's hard.” He said it simply, no performative sympathy, just acknowledgment that felt genuine. “And your stepfather raised you after?”
“Yeah.”
“You close?”
I laughed, bitter and sharp. “No. Opposite of close. We tolerate each other on good days.”
“But you came back here anyway.”
“Didn't have a better option.”
Rafael studied me for a long moment, then smiled slightly. “I think you're lying to yourself, but that's none of my business.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“Means you could've gone anywhere. But you came home. To him. That says more than you want it to whether you admit it or not.”
I wanted to argue. But the words stuck in my throat because he was right and I hated that he was right and I hated that I'd walked back into this city knowing exactly what I was walking back into.
“He know you're working with the Sentinels?”
“He doesn't know anything about what I do.”
“Smart man.” Rafael smiled. “Probably safer not knowing.”
We talked for another hour. Easy conversation that moved between Chicago, the fight scene Rafael had investments in, mutual acquaintances from Luka's world. Surface-level catching up that felt good because it required nothing deeper, because Rafael didn't know me well enough to ask the questions that would cut.
By the time we finished the third round, I felt looser than I had since landing. The whiskey helped, but so did the conversation. The reminder that not every interaction had to be loaded with history and resentment and the weight of everything I was trying not to feel.
“I should go,” I said finally, checking my phone. Nearly five. I'd been here longer than I meant to.
“Yeah, I've got a meeting myself.” Rafael stood and pulled out his wallet, dropping enough cash on the table to cover both our tabs and a generous tip. “Good seeing you, Troy. We should do this again while you're in town.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“I mean it. You need anything while you're here, call me.” He pulled out a card, slid it across the table. Business card, embossed and expensive-looking, with just his name and a phone number. “Anything at all.”
I pocketed the card. “Thanks.”
We shook hands. Then he was gone, weaving through the bar toward the exit, leaving me sitting there feeling oddly settled.
The gates were still open when I got to the cemetery. Visiting hours didn't end until six, which gave me just enough time if I didn't linger.
