Blood Ties and Black Robes

Blood Ties and Black Robes

Chapter 1 – A Scar and a Knock

I’m still laughing when the knock comes.

It’s the deep, belly kind—the laugh that bubbles up out of nowhere and catches you off guard. I’m looking in the mirror, tracing the scar above my eye, my sling hanging loose at my side, and thinking maybe—just maybe—I’ve made it through the worst. The bruises, the blood loss, the headlines… all of it behind me.

Then the knock comes again. Louder. Harder. The kind that belongs to a cop, a bill collector, or someone with bad intentions.

Arnold’s in the kitchen humming to himself, oblivious. He’s fussing over pasta like we’re some kind of sitcom couple, wooden spoon tapping the rim of a pot. I step into the hall, the laugh still lingering in my throat but warping into something tight and uneasy.

“Who is it?” I call.

Silence.

I crack the door just enough to see.

Two men in tailored suits stand on the landing. Not NYPD—wrong posture, too polished. The taller one is broad-shouldered, eyes like still water that don’t blink unless they want to. The other’s holding a slim leather portfolio, the kind that says whatever’s inside will ruin your day.

“Mr. Morrow?” the tall one says.

“That’s me,” I answer, every part of my detective’s gut telling me this is about to get ugly.

The man with the portfolio steps forward, opens it just enough for me to see an embossed seal I know too well—New York State Superior Court.

“Judge Morrows requests your presence,” he says.

My stomach drops. “My father sent you?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. Only Stephen Morrows could summon men like these to my door without so much as a phone call.

Arnold appears behind me with a wooden spoon in hand. “Trevor, who—”

“Not now,” I say, sharper than I mean to.

The tall one’s jaw ticks. “We can do this the easy way, or the hard way.”

I glance at Arnold, then back at them. Something in their eyes tells me this isn’t about family dinner. And whatever my father wants, it’s never just business—it’s about control.

I grab my jacket. “Fine. Let’s go.”

Arnold’s voice follows me down the hallway. “Call me when you can, okay?”

I don’t answer.

The black sedan outside smells like new leather and quiet threats. I’m in the back seat, hemmed in between the two suits, watching the city roll by in gray winter light. We don’t speak.

Instead, I replay the last few months in my head: the case, the blood, Mitchell’s lifeless body, Richard’s trial. The way the press treated me like some dark knight of Brooklyn. The way my father pretended my name in the papers was an inconvenience instead of free campaign coverage.

We cross the bridge into Manhattan, and my chest tightens. His office isn’t in the courthouse—it’s in a private suite uptown, overlooking the park. I’ve only been there twice, and both times ended with me wondering why I ever answered the call.

When we arrive, one suit opens my door. The other gestures toward the elevator without a word.

The ride up is silent except for the mechanical whir. My reflection stares back at me in the polished metal doors—bruised eye, day-old stubble, sling like a badge of survival.

The elevator dings, and I step into the kind of office lobby that smells like money and old power. Mahogany everywhere. Carpet so thick you could lose a shoe in it. A receptionist with a smile so thin it could cut glass.

“Mr. Morrow,” she says, her voice all ice and etiquette. “He’s expecting you.”

Of course he is.

My father’s office hasn’t changed. The walls are lined with law books he’s probably never read but likes to display. A framed photo of him shaking hands with the governor. A crystal decanter of scotch older than I am.

He’s standing behind his desk when I walk in, looking every bit the Superior Court judge—tailored suit, silver hair, posture like a drawn sword.

“Trevor,” he says, and it’s not a greeting. It’s an evaluation.

“Dad,” I reply, taking the seat across from him without waiting to be told. “You could’ve just called.”

He ignores the jab, leaning forward. “We have a problem.”

“You mean you have a problem,” I say.

“This one involves you.”

I lean back, crossing my arms. “Of course it does.”

He slides a manila folder across the desk. I hesitate before opening it. Inside are crime scene photos—grainy, printed in black and white. A man slumped in an alley, throat cut clean.

“Who is he?” I ask.

“Assistant District Attorney James Teller,” my father says. “He was building a case that could have… complicated certain political ambitions.”

I close the folder. “So what’s this got to do with me?”

His eyes narrow. “Your name came up.”

I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “And let me guess—this is the part where you tell me to clear it before it sticks.”

“This is the part,” he says coldly, “where you decide whether you want to keep living like a private investigator scraping by on cheap cases, or step into something that matters.”

There it is—the hook. He’s not just warning me. He’s recruiting me.

I push the folder back toward him. “You want my help? Fine. But understand something—if I do this, I do it my way. No strings.”

His smile is thin. “You’ll find strings are inevitable in this family.”

By the time I’m back in the elevator, the weight of the folder feels heavier than the sling on my arm.

Something tells me this isn’t just about clearing my name. It’s about being dragged into a world I’ve spent my whole life running from—a world where blood ties are currency, and truth is whatever the man in the robe says it is.

When the elevator doors open, the two suits are waiting to drive me home. I step into the cold air, my breath fogging in the wind, and make myself a quiet promise:

If my father wants me in this game, I’m going to play. But I’m going to play to win.

Even if it kills me.