Inheritance
Karam's Legacy, Chapter 7: Not all Bloodlines Bleed the Same.
Hey there!
This is Chapter 7 of my serialized novel - Karam’s Legacy
If you’re just joining in, catch up here:
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6
In this chapter:
One man inherited a name. The other, a mission.
March 14, 2021
The subway train rattled through the tunnels, its metallic clatter echoing off the walls of a nearly empty car. Rashid sat still, a book open in his lap, the overhead lights casting slow-moving shadows across the pages. He was reading one of his father’s favorites—The Weary Generations.
A burst of noise broke the rhythm: laughter, slurred and mocking, from the far end of the car.
Four men, half-drunk and loud, loomed over two nurses in scrubs. One tried to keep her head down, tuning them out. The other couldn’t hide her discomfort. Her shoulders were tensed, and her eyes darted every which way as if searching for a way out.
The laughter grew louder, more pointed—words slurring into something meaner. One of the men leaned in too close, his breath thick with alcohol. The other three hovered like hyenas, feeding off the rising tension.
One of the nurses glanced across the car, and for a second, her eyes met Rashid’s.
She stood up as the train slowed into the next station, clutching her bag like a shield. Without saying a word, she moved to another seat, closer to the middle of the car. The other nurse hesitated, then quickly followed.
It was a quiet retreat from the noise, stench, and rowdiness of the men. But they didn’t like that.
One of the men started after the second nurse, his smirk curling into something sharper. “Hey, where you going?” he called, voice louder now. “We’re just talking.”
That was when Rashid closed his book.
He stood with silent purpose, stepping into the aisle before the man could get any closer to the nurses. The train jerked slightly as it pulled out of the station, but Rashid didn’t flinch.
The man blinked at him, thrown by the interruption. “You got a problem?”
Rashid stopped just short of the man, his gaze level. “Go back to your seat,” he said. Calm. Controlled.
The others began to walk up behind him.
But Rashid didn’t move.
His fists hung loose at his sides, but his stance said otherwise. He wasn’t blocking the aisle. He was holding it. The men exchanged glances, half-drunken bravado bouncing between them: We can take him. He’s just one man.
The boldest—or drunkest—stepped forward, puffing his chest like he’d seen in movies. He lunged—sloppy, angry.
Rashid moved like water slipping around stone. One sidestep. One jab—sharp and surgical.
The first man stumbled back, clutching his jaw, blinking in disbelief.
The second hesitated, thrown by his friend’s stumble. But pride overruled caution, and he charged. Rashid slipped the attack and delivered a clean two-hit combo—quick, precise. The second man dropped to one knee, gasping for air.
The remaining two harassers hovered now, untested but wide-eyed, watching their friends falter. The fight had left them as quickly as it began.
Rashid turned to the nurses. They were shaken, but safe.
“Are you alright?” he asked, his voice soft now, the edge gone.
They nodded, gratitude flickering in their eyes.
Then—a scream.
The first man, bloodied but stubborn, was back on his feet. He lunged from behind, wrapping his hands around Rashid’s head in a desperate grip. Rashid stepped back, then broke free in a single violent twist. He closed the distance and unloaded—brutal, surgical punches. His face remained calm, detached. Unrelenting.
“Stop! Okay! Okay!” the man shouted, arms up in surrender.
“Alright, he’s had enough!” one of the others yelled, rushing in alongside the fourth man to pull Rashid away.
But Rashid pivoted sharply. He shoved them both back.
The third attacker went down fast—jab, cross.
The fourth raised his guard too late. Two hooks—left, then right—and he crashed to the floor.
As the train slowed into the next station, the first man to yell and throw the first punch—the only one still standing—scrambled to gather his friends. All four stumbled out, dragging each other toward the platform.
One of the nurses mouthed the words “Thank you.”
Rashid said nothing. He walked back to his seat, opened his book, and began reading again.
Amir had been at the precinct all morning, filling out forms, pushing paper, avoiding decisions. His phone buzzed—Manfred again. Third time today. He let it ring.
He hadn’t returned Mason’s messages either. He knew the conversation was coming—about Connors, about what happened at One PP—but he didn’t want to have it over the phone. It needed to happen in Mason’s office. Face to face.
And then there was Romano. The manila folder he’d handed over still sat unopened on Amir’s kitchen counter. Amir had barely glanced at it since. Not because he’d forgotten, but because he wasn’t sure what opening it would mean.
Romano raised too many red flags to ignore. Amir would look into him, but on his terms.
For now, Mason came first.
Amir pushed himself up from his chair and climbed the stairs to the second floor, intending to confront Mason directly.
But as he rounded the corner, he slowed.
Conference Room B’s door was slightly ajar. Inside, a meeting was already in progress.
Five people sat around the narrow table. At the far end: Mason. Beside him sat a seasoned detective Amir only vaguely recognized—Detective Costello, from Homicide. Across from them was a forensic expert in a lab coat, her laptop open, and a folder thick with photos beside her. An officer from Internal Affairs—face tense, arms crossed—leaned back slightly in his chair, absorbing everything without speaking. And leading the discussion stood a woman Amir didn’t recognize.
A projector cast footage onto the screen—grainy subway video, paused mid-motion. The image showed a figure mid-swing, brass glinting faintly on his fist.
And at the front of the room, commanding attention, stood a woman Amir didn’t recognize.
Poised. Measured. She pointed at the screen with a capped marker, speaking with a voice clear enough to carry through the crack in the door.
“Brass knuckles. Controlled strikes. Minimal hesitation. Whoever this was, he came to kill.”
Pens scratched. Heads nodded. Mason leaned forward, listening.
No one turned toward Amir.
She continued, flipping to the autopsy summary on a second slide. “Morozov never had a chance. No defensive wounds. Full-force trauma to the skull. The killer knew exactly what he was doing.”
“Gang-related?” Costello asked.
She shook her head. “Unlikely. No tags. No turf motive. This wasn’t chaos. It was a message.”
Amir felt a chill settle behind his ribs.
The woman turned to the whiteboard and wrote, in clean, all-caps letters:
TRAINED ATTACKER
And beneath that: MOROZOV / 36TH AVE
His station.
His pulse quickened. A deep part of him longed to be in that room, to be part of this investigation. But he knew that a cop killing was investigated by someone much further up the ladder, someone more seasoned.
Mason said something Amir couldn’t hear. The woman nodded and clicked to the next slide: a timestamped still of a hoodie-clad figure walking away.
01:12:33 AM.
Amir backed away from the glass, thoughts spinning.
Just then, the meeting began to break up. Detective Costello exited first, murmuring something to the forensic expert who followed close behind. The Internal Affairs officer lingered near Mason, looking like he had more to say.
Amir shifted, inching closer to the door—instinctively positioning himself to intercept Mason on his way out.
But it wasn’t Mason who emerged next.
The woman who had led the briefing finished packing up her files, slung her bag over one shoulder, and stepped through the doorway—right into Amir’s path.
They nearly collided.
Amir froze, caught off guard.
She stopped short, raised an eyebrow, and gave him a quick once-over. Not aggressive—just the kind of look cops gave when placing you on a mental grid.
“You’re Kashyap,” she said, matter-of-fact.
Amir straightened and had a confused look on his face.
She gave the smallest shrug. “Viral videos don’t exactly help with anonymity.”
She was older than Amir by at least ten years, composed, her posture straight but not stiff. A dark navy blazer covered her blouse, and her NYPD badge hung from her belt beside a sidearm.
“Detective Laila Rahman,” she added. “Second Grade. Homicide.”
Amir nodded once, quietly recalibrating. “You’re lead on Morozov?”
“I am.”
There was no invitation in her tone. No apology, either. Just fact.
Amir gave a quiet nod.
Detective Rahman offered a small, polite smile. “Excuse me.”
Amir stepped aside, allowing Detective Rahman to walk past him.
Before he could turn away, a voice from inside the conference room caught his ear.
“You know his father’s history,” the IAB detective said, low and firm. “We can’t afford another wildcard. Especially not one trending online.”
Mason stayed quiet.
“He’s not just a cop anymore,” the detective continued. “He’s a story. One wrong headline, and someone’s going to start asking what happened with Karam Kashyap. You want that unsealed?”
Mason exhaled through his nose. “It won’t get to that.”
“Let’s hope not,” the detective said. “Because the media will dig until they make him one.”
That was when Mason spotted the open door—and Amir standing just beyond it. Mason’s gaze locked with Amir’s. For a moment, he looked like a man who’d been caught stealing something sacred.
At the precinct, Amir stood outside a room he wasn’t allowed into. Across the city, Rashid sat in his own—where every move was his to make.
He sat in the storage room behind the bookstore—a space he’d quietly transformed into a makeshift office. Boxes lined the far wall, some sealed, others sagging with forgotten contents. A pot simmered on the hot plate, the air steeped with the scent of ginger, nutmeg, cinnamon, and cardamom.
On the desk rested an old photograph: his father, Wakil, standing just outside the shop, one hand on a younger Rashid’s shoulder. The edges were frayed, the ink faded—but Wakil’s gaze remained sharp, steady.
Next to it lay a clipped article: Transit Detective Arrests Wild Man in Subway.
One name was underlined in red—Amir Kashyap.
Beneath a single light from the ceiling, and on top of his desk, sat a growing stack of similar clippings, wrapped in a rubber band. Rashid slid this one into the pile without a word.
Alex Romano emerged from the shadows as if he’d been their progeny—charcoal jacket, scuffed boots, a faint trace of smoke trailing him. He hadn’t come through the bookstore’s front entrance. Instead, he slipped in through the back—an alleyway three doors down that most people didn’t even notice.
“Looks like he took the bait,” Alex said softly.
Rashid didn’t respond right away. He moved the pot on the hot plate and poured milk into the blend of spices and water. He quietly watched as the tea boiled and simmered, adjusting the temperature along the way.
He finally spoke. “Tea’s ready. Have a seat.”
Alex scanned the room and pulled a worn crate close to the desk. Rashid handed him a chipped mug, half-filled with chai.
“His father was a legend,” Rashid said, easing into his seat. “I remember seeing him on the news—always fighting. I admired that. My father… he never fought. I love him, respect him. Miss him,” his voice trailed off for a moment. Rashid took another sip, which appeared to reset his focus, “But I wish he’d fought. If not physically, then in some other way. Legally, maybe. There’s always a way.”
He took a long sip, then took the photograph of his father and himself from his desk and handed it to Alex.
“Don’t remember when this was. Could’ve been any day.”
Alex studied the picture. In that quiet moment, Rashid felt less like a boss and more like a man he could understand. The photo radiated something Alex had never known—belonging. Everything he’d ever had, he’d earned alone. He’d never seen his parents’ faces, not even in memory.
To watch Rashid speak of his father—that connection—was something Alex could only imagine. In a way, he longed for it. A sense of family. And in a way, he received that sense of family. A purpose. Connecting dots. Cleaning up the streets. All because he met Rashid that one fine Monday evening.
“Too bad Amir’s on the wrong side,” Rashid stated. “Watch him closely.”
Alex nodded once and sipped his chai, the warmth spreading through him like the weight of unspoken loyalty.
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