second chances
mob boss! lando norris x reader
part forty eight: pretty palace, pretty prison
word count: 4.6k
warnings: this chapter contains descriptions of injury grief, isolation, and feeling trapped. reader discretion is advised.
forty seven | forty eight | forty nine
By the third day, the walls were starting to close in. Or maybe it just felt that way β too much space could be just as suffocating as too little.
The estate was endless, cavernous, yet somehow claustrophobic. Every hallway looked the same, every door shut, every shadow carrying the weight of silence. She wasnβt used to stillness like thisβforced stillness, where she couldnβt go out, couldnβt work, couldnβt even walk further than the front lawns without someone shadowing her.
Most often, it was Logan who kept her company, the one who made it bearable. He popped up so often it was like heβd been assigned as her shadow, but with enough mischief in him that it didnβt feel like surveillance most of the time.
He was the one whoβd insisted on giving her a tour the first afternoon, narrating as though the place were some grand museum, rattling off room names with a straight face that she knew he had to be making up. βThatβs the west drawing roomβdonβt ask what they draw in there, no one knows.β
He was the one who snuck her contraband from the kitchen β gourmet truffles hidden behind tins no one else seemed to know existed. It was Logan who matched her slower steps when she had to go out for her prescribed βgentle movementβ and βdaylight.β He made their walks sound like missions. Operation Vitamin D, he called it.
It was on one of these walks when she first discovered them β clusters of peonies blooming in perfect rows along the carefully landscaped gardens, bright and lush against the muted greens. They should have been beautiful, all of them pale pink, heavy-headed, swaying in the breeze.Β
Instead, her stomach turned, and she tore her gaze away.
βIβm already starting to go crazy,β she muttered instead. βI have nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one to talk toββ
βYouβre talking to me,β Logan pointed out, grinning like that fixed everything.
She shot him a look. βThat doesnβt count.β
βRude.β He tucked his hands in his pockets, unbothered as he glanced at her sideways. βYouβll learn to like it here. Just give it a chance.β
βI donβt want to give it a chance.β
He nudged her shoulder gently as they walked. βIf youβre stuck here, you might as well have fun with it, yeah?β
She scoffed.
βCβmon,β he insisted. βIβm sure thereβs something for you here.βΒ
As they came to a lull in conversation, they turned a corner on the gravel path and there they were again: rows of the prettiest peonies sheβd ever seen, nodding in the breeze.
Logan followed her stare, but was confused. βYou donβt like flowers?β
Her jaw tightened. βTheyβre fine.β
βFine?β he echoed, chuckling. βThatβs a strong opinion.β
She didnβt answer.Β
He let it go, though she caught the way his eyes lingered on her face a moment longer before he shoved his hands back in his pockets.
They walked on in silence until he tried again, lighter this time. βYou know, there are worse prisons. At least this oneβs got chocolate truffles.β
She almost smiled, but the flowers in her periphery soured it.
The first few nights at the estate, she didnβt dare leave her room. The house was too big, too silent, and though Loganβs boyish charm kept her from completely losing her mind during the day, the nights stretched long and empty. Eventually the brewing restlessness got the better of her.
So she picked a night, late enough that the halls seemed deserted, and crept out. Bare feet against polished wood, hand trailing along the wall for balance. Every creak sounded amplified. She half-expected alarms, guards, someone to catch her wandering. But nothing came β just the echo of her own steps down the wide corridor.
The kitchen was farther than she thought it would be. It was easy to follow the faint scent in the airβgarlic, onions, something rich and simmering. When she finally pushed the door open, she froze.
The lights were on. Pots clattered, steam curling up into the air. And at the center of it all, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stood a man she recognized only vaguely from the periphery of her hospital haze. He was broad-shouldered, focused, a dishcloth thrown carelessly over his shoulder. A cutting board just beside his hip was littered with herbs and peels, while a pan hissed on the stove.
Carlos stood at the front end of the kitchen, sleeves rolled, wooden spoon in hand. He looked up when she entered, brow arched, but didnβt seem surprised.
βCanβt sleep?β
She shook her head, still hovering at the threshold like sheβd been caught somewhere she didnβt belong. βDidnβt think anyone would be here.β
βYeah, well.β He stirred the pot. βI get ideas for recipes I want to try. Donβt like waiting till morning.β
The counter was clutteredβingredients half-used, notes scrawled on a pad, a pan just a little too scorched in the sink. But it was a good mess, the kind that was a side effect of the alive and living, and unlike the sterile kind of order the rest of the house carried.
He turned back to stir whatever was simmering. His accent clipped the words, dry, practical. βHungry?β
β...Maybe.β
He gestured at a chair without looking. βSit. I make something for you, hm?β
Tentatively, she took a seat at one of the chairs behind the island, facing toward the stove where Carlos stood. Perhaps it wasnβt the wisest decision to eat something made by a stranger, but at the rich aromas wafting through the place, her stomach grumbled and whatever resolve she shouldβve had weakened.
The smell was even stronger now that sheβd entered the kitchenβherbs, butter, something savory and warm. She watched him move, economical in the way he worked, even his knives and pans handled with an engineerβs precision.
She cleared her throat. βSo, uhβ¦ Who are you?β
He smirked faintly at the bluntness, but didnβt stop working. βCarlos.β
βAre you likeβ¦ a criminal or something? Or a cook?β The words sounded ridiculous out loud, but she couldnβt help herself.
That earned her an actual glance, the faintest glimmer of amusement. βEh, it depends on the day. Today, you are lucky.β
She tried not to laugh, but it slipped out anyway.
βHow do you know him?β
βLando?β Carlos set down the knife, wiping his hands on a towel. His tone was matter-of-fact as he leaned against the counter, arms folded. βI am an engineer by trade, but for him I work asβ¦ a sort of strategist. For me, I have to think ahead, plan. This way, he doesnβt have to look over his shoulder every second if Iβm doing my job right.β
It wasnβt sentimental, but it was something deeper. She caught it in the way he might as well have added so Lando doesnβt have to.
βYou look out for him,β she noted quietly.
Carlos didnβt answer. Instead, he just busied himself plating what heβd been making, as if the observation warranted no further discussion, no reply. When he finally set the dish in front of her, it was a simple, hearty thingβpasta tossed with a thick sauce, steaming, a slice of bread on the side.Β
Comfort food.
βEat,β he said, as casually as if it were an afterthought. βYou are too thin. You need your strength, ay?β
He said it without looking at her, without any softness in his tone. But the plate was still warm, set down with more care than his words admitted. So she picked up the fork, and for the first time since stepping into this fortress of a house, she didnβt feel quite so out of place.
Here, every sound echoed β her footsteps, the creak of old wood, even the faint rustle of the curtains catching whispers of the late autumn winds.
Her encounter with Carlos had beenβ¦ fine. Decent, even. But Y/N reminded herself not to take that as proof. Just because her encounter with Carlos had turned out alright didnβt mean that applied to everyone else. She reminded herself that these men werenβt her friends. It would do her good to remember that regardless of whatever charm or humor or warmth they let slip through, it didnβt erase who they were β criminals.Β
Probably murderers.
Despite this rather inconvenient fact, Y/N couldnβt help herself. Sheer boredom infected her with restlessness, and so she slipped out of her room once again.
She padded through unfamiliar corridors, each turn opening into something new. A gallery with oil portraits whose eyes followed her down the hall. A music room with a grand piano polished so smooth it reflected her face back at her. She found a sunroom lined with glass so carefully fractured that it refracted light, causing the whole room to glimmer like a kaleidoscope.
She moved slowly, her hand brushing along the cool walls as she explored. The east wing was full of grand, unused spaces: A library with shelves so tall she had to crane her neck to see the top, the scent of old paper thick in the air, another drawing room where an enormous chandelier hung over furniture that looked like no one had touched it in years.
After a while, her breath began to grow thinner as her lungs wheezed under the strain, stitchesΒ pinching in protest, but she couldnβt really be bothered to care that much.
Thatβs when she heard it β a steady, rhythmic thudding.
Her heart leapt to her throat. For a moment, Y/N was sure sheβd stumbled onto something brutal. Perhaps someone was being beaten in one of these very rooms.
She shouldnβt be here.
But she followed the sound anyway.
The noise grew louder until she pushed open a door and foundβ¦ not a victim, but Max Verstappen. He stood in the center of a stark gym, body taut with sweat, hammering fists into a heavy bag that swung violently from the ceiling. His movements were clean, efficient β each precise like the strike of a cobra. Despite being otherwise occupied, he noticed her presence instantly.Β
βLost?β the man asked bluntly.
She hovered in the doorway. βExploring.β
Finally, he pulled his fists back, breathing steady. He glanced at her, measuring her presence, sizing her up.
βYou shouldnβt be here,β Max told her, voice even, not unkind.
She swallowed.Β
βI was justβ¦ walking.β
He grabbed the bag to still it, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. He didnβt dismiss her, though. Instead, he simply waited.
βUh, who are you?β
Max turned his attention to unlinking the punching bag heβd been using in favor of replacing it with a heavier one. βMax,β he stated, rather plainly.
At her look of confusion, he smirked. βVerstappen,β he clarified.
She nodded in understanding. However, she could only look at the training room for so long before her gaze met Maxβs waiting one once again. The deadpan expression he wore was more bored than annoyed, so she decided to test her luck.
βSoβ¦ what do you do?β
His brow furrowed, like he wasnβt sure if the question was naive or bold. Then he answered anyway, resting the angle of his fist so that his knuckles would hold the bag in place before him.
βSimple. I protect him.β
βBecause youβre scared of him?β
βNo.β Verstappenβs tone was flat, unflinching. βBecause I choose to.β
Something about the simplicity of it lodged in her chest. While the answer was short enough, even she could tell that it was sincere. Max wasnβt loyal to Lando out of fear. Rather, it seemed that he was loyal because he truly wanted to be. Trust, not terror, was what bound him here.
Her mouth opened, then closed again. She didnβt know how to argue with that.
Max bent to grab a towel from the bench, throwing it over his shoulders. The Dutchman adjusted the wrap on his hand, then fixed Y/N with a look. His eyes flicked down to the side she was favoring, then back up.
βDonβt push yourself too much,β he said, matter-of-fact. βIf you walk around a lot you will rip your stitches open.β
She blinked. βIs that concern I hear?β
βPracticality,β he muttered, turning back to the bag. The next punch landed with a sharp thud, final as a period at the end of a sentence.
Back in her room, Y/N lay sprawled across the enormous bed, eyes tracing the ornate crown molding, the carved wooden headboard, the velvet curtains drawn just enough to block the evening gloom. Everything here was beautiful, curated, untouchable.Β
Even this room, a guest room, was adorned with luxury most could probably only dream of affording in their homes β dark wood, velvet curtains, gold filigree that caught the gray light spilling through the tall windows.Β
It would have been breathtaking if it werenβt a prison.
She was tired of pretending it was anything else. The place had no warmth. No history of her own. It wasnβt home and never would be. She was tired of pretending. Tired of pacing endless halls like a guest who had overstayed her welcome. Tired of being coddled by strangers with sharp smiles and bloody hands.
Mostly, though, she was tired of him. Tired of Lando, who had locked her here and then vanished, leaving her to rattle around inside this palace like an echo.
So when Logan stopped by later, she leaned back on her pillows and blurted out,βI want a plant.β
The blond tilted his head, eyebrows raised. βA plant.β
βYeah. Something green. Living. You know, the kind that comes in a pot?β
βRight. Youβreβ¦ decorating now?
She shrugged. βI could be.βΒ
Logan grinned. βAlright. What kind?β
βHmmβ¦ something difficult. Rare. Maybeβ¦ a bird of paradise? Or a prayer plant!β She made a show of tapping her chin, like she was trying to come up with the most inconvenient request possible. βSomething you canβt just pick up at the corner store.β
He blinked, before laughing. βThatβs very specific. You donβt make it easy, do you?β
βThatβs the point,β she muttered. If she was going to be stuck here, she might as well pick something impossible to get. Something that would maybe annoy him, force him to at least show his face to tell her off for her unwarranted demands.
Logan grinned like he saw straight through her, but didnβt press. Instead, he accompanied her out to their daily walk. Outside, the sky hung heavy with clouds, the air damp with the smell of earth. The two of them wandered the stone paths, her pace slow, his hands stuffed in his pockets.
Halfway around the lawn, he stopped, crouched, and pulled a knife from his boot. He tossed it into the air, spinning it out of habit before he caught it by the blade and held out the handle to her.
βWhatβ?β
βCβmon. Throw it.β
βIβabsolutely not.β
He grinned wider. βItβs fun. Promise. Iβll show you.β
She gave him a look but took it anyway, the weight solid in her hand. He set up a target β a half-decaying log at the edge of the trees β and guided her through the stance, the motion.Β
Her first throw barely stuck in the bark.Β
βThumb here, flick of the wrist,β he said, tossing it so cleanly that it landed with a satisfying thunk in the exact center of the logβs spiral.
Y/N really was trying. It just so happened that she was also failing spectacularly.
He laughed so hard he had to brace against the wall. βLook at you! You almost killed the floor.β
βShut up.β She grabbed another and tried again, but her second also flopped uselessly onto the ground.
By the third, the blade actually stuckβcrooked, barely holdingβshe lit up despite herself. Logan clutched his chest in mock horror. βProdigy. Iβm gonna be out of a job soon.β
Eventually, they looped back inside, her ribs aching from laughter as much as from the stitches.
But when she opened the door, her smile dropped.
There, sitting neatly by the window, was a plant. Not just the one sheβd asked for β though there it sat: a bird of paradise in a sleek pot β but others too. There was even a prayer plant with its patterned leaves, and a couple more she didnβt even recognize. Different sizes, different kinds, all clustered neatly on the table by the window.
No note. No explanation.Β
Just⦠there.
Her chest tightened, hot with something she didnβt want to name.
So that was it? Heβd go through the trouble of finding all thisβmaybe even scouring Monaco for itβand still not show his face? Just hand it off like she was another logistical problem to solve?
He wouldnβt even face her? Not even to argue? Heβd send someone else to deliver the damn plants?
As she stared at the plants, beautiful and green against the gray evening light, she found that somehow, that pissed her off more than if heβd ignored her entirely.
The next morning she found herself wandering again, restless steps carrying her through yet another unfamiliar hallway. It amazed her how every corridor here looked like something out of a magazineβarched ceilings, gilded sconces, rugs that probably cost more than her old rentβbut none of it felt lived in.
During these short excursions, sheβd already found a music room with a grand piano under a sheet, a gallery lined with oil portraits she didnβt recognize, even a little conservatory that smelled faintly of soil and citrus.
After leaving the conservatory behind, Y/N had barely made it halfway down the corridor when she noticed a door she didnβt remember seeing before. It was tucked away at the end of a narrower hall, darker, less polished than the rest. It bore no label.
Cautiously, she glanced both ways down the hall. It was still empty.
Without making a sound, her fingers inched closer until they wrapped around the handle. Just as she was going to turn it, however, she was interrupted by a disembodied voice.
βSorry. Thatβs off limits.β
She jumped, hand flying back like sheβd been caught stealing.
Oscar was leaning against the wall behind her, arms folded, expression unreadable. It was like heβd appeared out of thin air. Tall, composed, the usual faintly amused glint in his eyes.
βThatβs Norrisβs office,β he added, tone quiet, clipped. βMβ sure you can understand.β
Her throat went dry. She opened her mouthβhalf to ask whatβs in there? and half to ask what are you doing sneaking up on me like that?βbut he was already shaking his head, a single, subtle movement.Β
No.
Before she could manage to bring the words to her lips, he turned and walked away, his footsteps nearly soundless on the polished floor as he melded into the dark.
She blinked, heart still racing.
Weird.
More often than not, sleep dragged her under like black water.
Tonight, she dreamed she was back in the cafΓ©. Not the warm, bustling one she knew, but hollow and echoing. The bell over the door chimed, but no one entered. The counters were wiped clean, tables overturned, and when she glanced down, her hands were slick with blood.
What? But Iβm not hurt, why would Iβ¦
Before she could even complete the tought, a knife flashed, a white-hot bolt lodged in her side. She staggered back, the floor beneath her tilting, and suddenly she was choking on it againβher own blood, thick and metallic, flooding her throat, lungs seizing. She clawed for air, but there wasnβt any, only the awful weight in her chest, the wet gurgle in her ears, the creeping cold rooting itself into her skin.
Not again. Not again, not again, notβ
She woke with a gasp, upright in bed, lungs convulsing as though sheβd never stopped drowning. Her sheets clung to her damp skin, her heart slamming against her ribs. For a panicked moment, she was sure sheβd been pulled back underβthat she was still dying, that sheβd never actually left that tiled floor.
Cold. Itβs still too cold.
It took long minutes of shallow, ragged breathing before she could force herself out of bed.Β
Shakily, she slid her legs over the edge of the bed, feet meeting the rug, and stood. Tiptoeing out into the hall, she moved like a ghost she almost was, breaths shallow, stitches tugging as if to remind her she was still alive. She needed air. Real air.
The house was silent as she crept down the staircase, toes curling against the chill of the polished wood. The stairs creaked under her careful steps, each creak ringing out like an alarm, but no one stopped her. She kept moving until she reached the foyer.
Thatβs when she saw itβdraped over the arm of a chair. A throw blanket, soft-looking, patterned in muted blues. She couldnβt remember seeing it there before.
She hesitated, eyes narrowing. But the deathly cold still clung to her, and she had always loved throw blankets. So she reached, tentative fingers brushing the fabric, then pulled it close, wrapping it tight around her shoulders.
Warmth seeped in slowly β not enough, but better. She wandered further, letting the halls guide her, until a glow pulled her attention.
The fireplace was on in one of the sitting rooms, flames crackling against the hush. Shadows bent and danced across the high ceiling, gilded frames glowing with reflected heat. She stepped closer, letting the warmth touch her face, seeping through the lingering cold still clinging to her bones.
The flames drew her in, calling her closer. She lowered herself into one of the armchairs near the fire, the blanket still wrapped tight around her shoulders. It was mesmerizing to watch the flames lick at the grate, their warmth inching across her chilled skin. She had just let herself breathe when a voice cut through the quiet.
βA bit late to be up, isnβt it?β
She jumped, twisting toward the sound. A figure shifted out of the shadows, half-lit by the fireβs glow.
Max Fewtrell.
Recognition hit slowly, fuzzy through the haze of exhaustion. He was the voice on the phone that night. The voice that had said Landoβs name, the spark that had set the whole thing unraveling.
She blinked at him, clutching the blanket tighter. βYou nearly gave me a heart attack.β
He lifted his hands in apology, expression faintly tired but gentle. βDidnβt mean to. Couldβn sleep myself.β
If Y/N looked carefully now, she could see itβthe shadows under his eyes, the lines carved into his face by too many nights like this. He didnβt need to ask why she couldnβt sleep. Men like him already knew. After all, no one lasted this long in this business without collecting a few nightmares.
βTea?β he offered after a beat.
She hesitated, then nodded. He handed her a steaming cup a few minutes later, the warmth of the ceramic seeping into her fingers. She curled her fingers around the cup, grateful for the warmth.
For a while, silence stretched between them, broken only by the crackle of the fire. In that moment, the awkwardness was almost physical. After all, it had been his callβthe one that slipped, the one that led to her finding out the truth.
Max cleared his throat, finally breaking the fragile silence.Β
βHe regrets it, you know.β
Her laugh was sharp, bitter. βYeah? Well he sure has a funny way of showing it.β
βYβknow, this isnβt easy for him eitherββ
βFor him?β The words snapped sharper than she intended, slicing through the room. βWhat about me? He lied to me. Heβhe deceived me. Made me believe he cared about me, like I mattered to him.β
Maxβs gaze lifted, steady and firm in a way she didnβt expect. βHe never lied about that.β
The fire popped. The tea in her hands suddenly felt too hot.
Her stomach turned. Heat prickled behind her eyes, sharp and humiliating. She forced her face into bitterness, because letting the heartbreak show wouldβve been infinitely worse, wouldβve cracked her wide open.
βYeah? Well, maybe you donβt know him as well as you think you do.β
The fire snapped and hissed, filling the gap between them. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved.
Then Maxβs voice cut through, quiet but steady. βIβve known him almost my whole life, you know.β
Her head lifted at that.
βIβve seen him at his best nβ at his worst.β His gaze stayed fixed on the fire, eyes reflecting the glow. βEspecially his worst.β
Something in the way he said itβflat, not for effectβmade her sit up a little straighter, the blanket bunching at her elbows. β...Whatβs that supposed to mean?β
For a long moment, Max didnβt answer. He stared at the fire like it was easier to confide in flames than in her. When he finally looked at her, his expression was subdued, almost reluctant.
βYou donβt know what it did to him. When you were in surgery.β
She searched his face, waiting for a smirk, a tell, something to show he was exaggerating. But there was nothing. If anything, he looked unsettled by his own honesty.
βIβve seen a lot of people die,β Max said quietly. βBut Lando? Watching him after youβ¦ β He swallowed. βI didnβt really know until then how someone could be breathing but still not be alive.β
Her breath caught. βWhatβ What are you talking about?β
Max set his cup down, rubbing his thumb across the porcelain rim as though the memory itself weighed too much.
βHe sat outside the operating room forβ¦ hours. Wouldnβt eat, wouldnβ drink. He had your blood on his shirt, literally dried stiff, and no one could get him to change it. Heβ He just sat there, like, rocking like he was trying as hard as he could to hold himself together somehow. Every time the doors swung open, he would flinch, because he thought it might be them coming to tell him that you didnβt make it. And when the surgeon finally came outβ¦β
Maxβs jaw tightened.
βHe, like, crumpled. Just, fuckinβ, dropped his head in his hands like the floor had given out under him. It didnβt matter who saw. And when they let him see you afterβ¦ he begged you to wake up. Not loudly. βS more likeββ Maxβs voice grew quieter. He stopped, shook his head, as though the image itself was hard to say out loud. βHe just whispered it over and over and over like he was trying to make it happen if he just wanted it badly enough. I donβt think heβs ever been more afraid in his life.β
Something in her sternum felt like it had fractured, cracked down the middle, breath catching in her throat. She pulled the blanket tighter around herself, wishing it could shield her from the rawness of it.
The fire crackled, sparked and fluttered. Y/N stared at it, the picture heβd described so vivid she could almost see it. Lando, hollow-eyed in some too-firm hospital chair, clutching at the side of her hospital bed like it was a lifeline.
Like when she woke up.
βI didnβt know that,β she whispered.
Max smiled faintly, though there was no humor in it. It was sad, if anything. βWell, now you do.β
Then he rose, picking his cup up from beside him. The air shifted, heavier as he turned to go.
βMax?β she asked before she could stop herself.
He looked back. βYeah?β
When the words came, her voice was smaller than she meant it to be. β...Why did you bring him that night? At my apartment?β
Maxβs answer came without hesitation. βBecause he needed you.β
And then he left, his footsteps fading down the hall, leaving her with the fire and the ache of truths she wasnβt sure she wanted.
a/n: sorry for not getting this out sooner - the draft i originally had made me want to hit my head into the wall, so i basically scrapped it and had to start over for a lot of it. hopefully this makes more sense! as always, please lmk what you think (really, feedback is what keeps this monster going)!!
also a very very happy birthday to @clovermoters!! thank you so much for every comment and ask - it's readers like you that make writing worth it. i hope you have the most wonderful day :)











