The sun was setting, draping London's skyline in copper and darkening bruises. A lazy drizzle glossed the city, speckling the black sheen of my Aston Martin as I leaned back in the driver's seat, considering my evening. Technically, I should've been at St. James's for a charity dinner. It was a night for high praise, stiffened smiles, and ancient names that clung to every last century like dust to antique tapestries. A life of staid, predictable privilege was the expectation for a man like me. I was, after all, a Duke—Leon Howard Alastair Montrose, twelfth Duke of Riverway. When the crown required, I was every bit the nobleman.
But no one knew what came after.
Beyond the polished title, the illustrious royal lineage, the endless rounds of "your graces" and handshakes, was a man who operated in places so dark, so tightly wound, that few dared to whisper my name. They didn't call me Duke when they spoke of me in hushed tones in the shadows. They called me "King," and they didn't mean it with reverence.
I ran the largest criminal enterprise in all of London—a network of power, money, and fear. This, my other life, started with the quiet nods, favours, and subtle corruption that make up the very blood of London's aristocracy. The city knew only parts of me; my true self existed in the fracture where the royal and the ruthless met, a place I alone could dwell.
Tonight, I'd leave the title of Duke locked away with my tuxedo in the closet. Tonight, I'd wear something darker, something heavier, and much less forgiving.
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To survive in my position was to master the art of the balancing act. In one hand, I held my family's age-old honor—the demands of nobility, the burden of carrying on a name so steeped in British history that even the Queen herself occasionally glanced my way with that faint hint of worry. In the other, I held the grime and the rage that London had fed me since boyhood, the clenched teeth and back-alley grit that fueled my empire.
My life began as a predictable affair: Eton, Oxford, the same course charted for dukes and barons and earls since the birth of the Empire. As a Montrose, I was to be disciplined, groomed, civilized. My father instilled in me the silent, brutal strength required of men like us. I was to be someone who inspired awe without lifting a finger, to achieve with a whisper what others sought with a shout.
But then, like all the other men in my family, I discovered that blood does not flow cleanly.
My father had secrets that bled onto me, staining me in ways I couldn't shake. He owned London's most profitable private security firm, but behind that, he held a more intimate connection to the city's underworld—a family tradition handed down like a worn heirloom. I was fifteen when I learned, during one of those stiff father-son talks, that the Montrose family had quietly presided over London's organized crime rings since the reign of Queen Victoria. They called us "The Crown of
Shadows." In our world, the Duke was the real king, ruling a realm far more volatile, far more dangerous than any royal court. The men in my family had all played this role, balancing the proper English nobility with a relentless taste for control, ruthless enough to keep everyone in line, subtle enough to remain untouchable.
My nights, therefore, aren't spent behind a grand desk in some mansion or at a fancy dinner with the nobility. No, my life in the shadows requires a different setting. The back rooms of smoky clubs in Soho, dimly lit basements of lavish hotels, secret locations under layers of marble and oak. I meet men whose palms itch for cash, whose eyes are sharp with violence. We exchange no pleasantries, only power.
Some nights, it's just information—a favor traded for a favor. But often, it's much more. Dirty money shifts hands, orders are given, sometimes a death warrant sealed with the faintest nod of my head. I command soldiers who blend into the London night like they're part of the architecture, hard faces and cold eyes trained to carry out orders with perfect, detached obedience. My empire is a labyrinth, and at its core, there's a quiet, unshakable ruthlessness I inherited from a father who never smiled, who taught me that power is maintained not by brute force, but by flawless, whisper-thin precision.
Most people will never know the true Leon Montrose. They see the charming smile, the immaculate suits, the regal lineage, and they assume I'm merely another relic of British aristocracy. They might suspect, of course—they might wonder about that flicker in my eyes when they ask if I'm a Montrose. But they don't ask. No one dares. You see, if there's one thing more dangerous than a man with power, it's a man who has perfected the illusion of decency.
My day-to-day routine mirrors the duality of my existence. I wake in Oxfordshire House, a pristine estate older than several nations, where the mornings are calm and the air smells faintly of lilac and moss. The servants buzz around, not speaking unless addressed. My sister, Lillian, the only person who truly knows me, might pass by, her brow arched as if to say, "Who will you be today, Leon ? The Duke or the King?"
Breakfast, like everything in this household, is a ceremony. Silverware laid perfectly on white linen, eggs cooked just so, tea brewed with ritualistic care. I'm rarely alone at the table. Ambassadors, ministers, perhaps a royal cousin on occasion. They're allies of convenience, relationships I cultivate in the way other men cultivate gardens. I sit through these breakfasts with polite interest, and they see what they want: a gentleman, a Duke, a Montrose.
When I leave for London, I am a different man entirely. I shed the polite airs and step into a world where respect is earned not through titles but through action. I become someone sharper, harder, ruthless. The men and women in this world don't care that I come from blue blood. They respect only what I've built, what I can do.
My first stop might be The Savant, a nightclub in Soho that's the front for some of our most lucrative operations. There's always a problem waiting for me there, a subtle tension in the air as my men brace themselves. They know I'm a man of few words, but when I speak, I expect swift compliance. In this line of work, hesitation is the enemy. One soft word, one shaky look, and you're already dead.
The evening unfolds in a series of checks and balances. Money laundering schemes, drug shipments, betting scams—it's a machine that runs on paranoia and cash, an engine fed by vice and greed. But the violence—the true, undiluted violence—comes at my command. The orders are delivered in whispers, coded language, a simple "Handle it." By dawn, those words translate to someone somewhere being thrown into the Thames or disappearing into the yawning tunnels of London's underbelly, never to resurface.
Even now, there are moments that surprise me. I've stood over men twice my size and seen them shrink, their faces white and trembling. They know what I can do. They know I don't forgive. For all my father's instruction, his legacy, there is something uniquely terrifying in my hands, a coldness even he feared. I do not flinch at blood. I do not blink at the sound of breaking bones. Death is an abstract, weightless thing to me. It is a tool I wield when necessary, and I have wielded it with silent, chilling efficiency.
Yet in every corner of my life, I feel the thread of suspicion, a suspicion I know will one day lead to someone daring to question me. I know that no reign lasts forever, that power is an inherently transient thing. And so I am vigilant. The Duke by day, the King by night. Two lives, running side by side but never crossing, each holding the other's secrets.
When I return to Oxfordshire House each night, I often find myself staring into the darkened halls of my estate, feeling the weight of it all pressing against my chest. The loneliness, the endless deceit, the masks I must wear until even I am unsure which face is truly mine.
One of these nights, I know that something—or someone—will test me. I will be forced to confront the edge I have spent a lifetime dancing upon, the razor-thin line that separates Duke from King, shadow from light. And when that day comes, I wonder which side will win.
But tonight, as I step out of my car and breathe in the familiar scent of damp earth and lilac, I am the Duke once more. I ascend the steps of my estate, each step measured, every inch the part of the man they expect me to be.
Hello! Dear Reader, if you find any mistake in this chapter please let me know, I will be publishing as I write so things will be unedited but as I publish I promise to edit. Thats all, please remember to vote and comment.
- RRD
