Claimed By The Alpha, Marked By The Biker-Chapter 60: The Anger control area

Mordred’s PoV:

The ride back from the amusement park felt like plunging into ice water after the neon warmth of the night.

Kianna had insisted I followed them as Kristen dropped her off at the dorm first, and I had no choice but to go with them. Not after the insane incident that just happened at the park.

I even expected Kianna to have suspected something or asked questions about why that guy was stalking us. But she didn’t, just talked about how crazy the world could be.

Kristen also agreed with her. Only if they knew it wasn’t the world but my own fault.

When we reached the entrance of her Dorm gate, Kristen and I exchanged numbers. A reluctant truce sealed with a nod and a "watch her back."

Kianna hugged me goodbye, her arms lingering just a second longer than necessary, and whispered, "Thanks for tonight. I needed something normal."

Normal. As if anything about us had ever been that. But I gave her a faint smile and nodded.

I watched until her dorm door clicked shut behind her, then revved the bike and tore into the night.

The wind howled past my helmet, but it couldn’t drown out the echo of that whispered voice in the line: "So you decided to disobey me, isn’t it?"

The Boss or whatever the hell he was—had escalated. From texts to a stalker in a mask. From warnings to threats that could’ve ended with blood in a crowded park.

Lucky, he’d said. He was in a good mood. Fuck that. I wasn’t playing his game anymore...not as the pawn. I never knew it would get to this extent, how could we move from allies to master and his puppet this fast?

Thinking about it made my blood boil. He came with a plan, but what is it? Why me? Why is he doing this to me? I thought we both hated Maddox and wanted to Pauly him back...then why the hell was he toying with me instead?

My apartment was dark when I got back—my boys were probably out again, working graveyard shifts at jobs that barely paid the rent.

I didn’t flip on the lights, I didn’t need them. I paced the living room, boots tracking in slush from the streets, mind spinning like a wheel in mud.

The knife was still in my jacket, heavy and reassuring, but I needed more. I needed a plan or power.

That’s when I thought of Don Julio.He wasn’t a blood uncle—not really. But in the Sinclair household, family was what you made it.

My real parents had been small-time runners for his crew back in the day—before Dad got pinched for a botched job and Mom split, leaving me with the old man who’d "raised" me like a stray dog.

Don Julio had been the one to pull me out of that hell when I was fifteen, after the master—some low-level enforcer had beaten me one too many times.

He’d seen potential in my aim, my anger and my silence. Trained me in the shadows of the city’s underbelly. Guns, knives, how to disappear in a crowd and how to make someone else disappear.

The Sinclairs weren’t the biggest mafia family in town—not like the old Italian crews or the new Russian syndicates but they were smart and shady.

They knew people who knew people, the kind who could make problems vanish without a trace. If anyone could help me trap a ghost like the Boss, it was him.

I grabbed my keys again—no time to waste. His place was across town, a nondescript brownstone in a neighborhood that looked quiet but buzzed with eyes on every corner.

I rode hard, dodging traffic, the cold biting through my gloves. By the time I pulled up, snow had started falling, fat flakes swirling in the streetlights like ash from a fire.

The doorman knew me—nodded once and buzzed me in without a word. Up the stairs, past walls lined with faded photos of old family gatherings that masked hidden safes and escape routes.

Don Julio’s office was at the end of the hall, door cracked, cigar smoke curling out like a signal.

He was at his desk, his silver hair was slicked back with a fine suit jacket off, sleeves rolled up to reveal faded tattoos from his prison days.

A glass of bourbon sat untouched beside a stack of ledgers. He looked up as I entered, bushy eyebrows rising.

"Mordred...Late for a social call." His voice was gravel, accented with the old-country lilt he never lost. "You look like hell boy, have a seat."

I dropped into the leather chair across from him, the weight of the night crashing down. "I need your help, Uncle."

He leaned back, steepling his fingers. " Help? You Mordred need my help? This is new but anyways...talk I’m listening."

I spilled it all—no holding back. The anonymous texts starting with the videos to expose Maddox. The way he always knew where I was—the cinema, now the park with a stalker in the mask. Then the warnings, the threats, the way he dangled help like bait then yanked the line when I bit.

I even told him about Kianna—the bond, the wolves, the birthday deadline and everything. It sounded crazy saying it out loud, but Don Julio didn’t laugh.

Didn’t even blink, he just listened as his eyes kept narrowing like he was piecing together a puzzle.

When I finished, silence hung thick as the smoke. He sipped his bourbon finally, then set it down with a clink.

"This Boss," he said slowly. "Sounds like a ghost. Tech-savvy with eyes everywhere. He’s a manipulator, he could be a rival crew testing you. Or something worse—fed, maybe. Or one of those digital phantoms who play god from a basement."

I leaned forward. "He’s real. And he’s targeting me because of Kianna through Maddox."

Don Julio nodded before speaking."Love makes fools a targets....i thought I’ve trained you enough about this Mordred."

Then he drummed his fingers on the desk simultaneously before whispering with a smirk. "You want him gone?"

"Gone," I confirmed. "Trapped, eliminated or whatever it takes."

A slow smile creased his face—not warm, but approving. "That’s the Sinclair blood talking. Good...we’ll set a trap. Simple but an elegant one.He likes watching? Let him watch."

He outlined the plan like he was sketching a heist—clean lines, no loose ends. First, leak bait: I’d post something anonymous, something that looked like I was escalating against Maddox. A fake lead on more dirt, something juicy enough to draw the Boss out.

But threaded with code—a hidden message only someone monitoring my digital trail would catch. Then send him an invitation to meet at a neutral ground: an abandoned warehouse in the industrial district, one of ours wired with cameras, mics, and a few surprises.

"Make him think you’re desperate," Don Julio said. "Offer alliance. Say you’ll do his bidding if he reveals himself. He’ll bite—ego like that, they always do."

"And when he shows?" I asked curiously as if not knowing what would happen next.

"We grab him, interrogate him and eliminate that bastard." His eyes hardened. "Quiet, clean with no traces."

I nodded, the plan solidifying in my mind. "When?"

"Tomorrow night. I’ll have my guys prep the site. You handle the bait."

We shook on it—old-school, firm grip. As I stood to leave, he clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Be careful, kid. Ghosts don’t die easy."

From Don Julio’s brownstone, I didn’t head home. The adrenaline was too high, the anger too hot. I needed to burn it off. Needed to sharpen the edges I’d let dull for Kianna’s sake.

The shooting arena was on the outskirts—a private range the Sinclairs kept for training. Fenced in, no questions or cops.

I’d spent hours there as a teen, turning rage into precision. But after meeting Kianna, I’d walked away from it.

She didn’t know that side of me—the monster with a trigger finger. Didn’t want her to. For her, I’d tried to be normal and soft...not the Mordred people use to whisper about.

Tonight, normal wasn’t enough.

The gate code was still the same. I rolled the bike inside, killed the lights, and headed to the armory shed.

The key was under the loose brick—old habits. Inside, racks of guns gleamed under fluorescent bulbs: pistols, rifles and shotguns.

I picked a few, a 9mm Glock for close range, a .45 for stopping power, an AR-15 for distance with ammo boxes heavy in my arms.

The range was empty, just me and the targets under floodlights. Snow dusted the ground, swirling in the wind. I set up at the firing line, loaded the Glock first.

The first shot cracked the night—missed the center by an inch.

Then my anger surged, The Boss’s voice whispered in my head : You’re damn lucky tonight.

I yelled and fired again...it was closer this time, I was aiming at the target’s heart but kept hitting the center.

I imagined the boss’ face, bet that bastard looked ugly as hell. Then fired again, continuously this time but never making it.

That bitch had the gust to stalk me and even write threats. I don’t know why I was scared for a second, I’m Mordred. Someone like him was a piece of shit to me.

I fired again and again, letting it all out; the anger and frustrations, all because of that fool Maddox.

I don’t even know why I’m keeping him alive till now. Just as the thought of Maddox came into my mind, the sleepy monster in me woke up...slow at first—muscle memory kicking in, breath steadying, world narrowing to sight picture and trigger pull.

I switched to the .45, the recoil slamming my shoulder like an old friend. Targets shredded. Snow fell harder, but I didn’t stop.

Moved to the AR, prone position, sighting downrange at steel plates 200 yards out. Ping after ping, the sound echoing like judgment.

All night. Controlled by the anger—the pure, burning rage at being played. At some faceless bastard thinking he could puppeteer me because of love.

Love had made me soft...let me hide the monster and forgot myself for a second. But now? Now it was time to let it out.

Dawn crept in gray and cold. My hands ached, shoulders burned, but the monster was sharp and ignited...ready for the trap or whatever came on the 22nd.

No more games, that Bastard wants to play rough? Be my fucking Guest.