second chances
mob boss! lando norris x reader
part twenty-seven: margot
word count: 4.5k
warnings: the chapter contains violence and gore. reader discretion is advised.
twenty-six | twenty-seven | twenty-eight
It had been twenty-four days.
It wasn’t meant to be a big deal—twenty-four days wasn’t much, not really. Less than a month. A stretch of time that could pass without much fanfare. But when you were used to someone being a part of your every day—quietly, seamlessly—three and a half weeks felt like a shift in orbit.
She didn’t let herself dwell on it too much. People got busy. Work piled up. Life did what it always did—moved forward whether you were ready or not.
Still, her mornings felt slightly off. He’d been around long enough that she’d stopped checking the street before heading out, stopped glancing over her shoulder, stopped carrying that low buzz of unease she used to ignore. He’d made her feel safer without making a point of it. That absence hung in the air now—not threatening, not ominous. Just… noticeable.
Life had picked up again—there were essays to finish, coffee orders to mess up, the unrelenting rhythm of the city around her. She’d made it this far without needing him. Whatever space he’d carved into her routine, she was clearly capable of patching over. Even he could be temporary, inconsequential.
It’s not like she was waiting for him, or something. She wasn’t. And yet…
She still half-glanced at every black car that slowed by her building. She still paused outside cafés without knowing why. Still unlocked her phone more often than necessary, only to scroll past the name that used to light up her screen.
Once, a barista drew a little bear in her foam. She smiled, took the photo without thinking, thumb hovering over the send button—before locking the phone again and tucking it deep into her coat pocket.
She didn’t want to be dramatic about it. She didn’t want to chase someone who clearly wanted space. So, she adjusted. She wasn’t going to be the one to reach out, not again. Not after that.
If he wanted space, he could have all of it.
Lando noticed the silence long before he was ready to admit it.
No more photos in the middle of the day. No blurry videos of a latte she’d screwed up or some dog she thought looked like him. No sarcastic commentary about a book she swore he’d hate.
His phone had gone quiet. And it should’ve been a good thing.
He’d told himself he needed space, and now he had it.
Still, his eyes flicked toward his phone more often than they should. He kept it face-up now, just in case. Some nights, muscle memory had him opening their messages, stopping short of replying to any of them. He’d drafted something once. Deleted it before the second sentence.
He worked more. Stayed later at the office. Picked up meetings he would’ve normally sent Logan to handle. He trained harder. Sparred longer. There was no time to think when your knuckles were raw and your lungs were burning.
He worked until his eyes blurred, until emails bled into contracts and contracts bled into calls, until the hum of exhaustion drowned out every thought that threatened to claw through the haze of being on autopilot.
Lando was still waiting.
Not actively. Not desperately. He wasn’t weak like that. But some part of him—a stubborn, half-wounded part buried somewhere behind all the noise—kept waiting for a sign. A text. A photo. A “hey, remember this?”
But none came.
Instead, his phone was quiet. He turned the notification volume up one night, for no reason at all. Just in case, a voice had whispered in the back of his mind. Then he turned it back down the next morning, cursing himself for being so fucking soft.
He boxed more often now. Longer, harder, sometimes until his hands went numb through the wraps. Logan kept his distance, especially after the reassignment. Lando had said it was a logistics thing. No one believed him, but no one pushed.
The others didn’t bring her up anymore. And Lando made sure to keep it that way.
She was a distraction. He’d removed her.
Everything was fine.
Well, except the mornings. The ones where she used to sit in his car with sleepy eyes and a sarcastic joke. Or the nights when he’d find a stupid meme from her just as he was ready to lose his mind over work. Or the way silence used to feel rare—earned—and now just felt like it was swallowing him whole.
Lando shrugged it all off.
She wasn’t his girlfriend. She wasn’t even—
Whatever. It didn’t matter.
He had his reasons, and he sure as hell didn’t owe anyone an explanation. It was cleaner this way. Simpler, certainly.
He was back in control, and everything was exactly how it used to be.
Before, they’d somehow inadvertently ended up spending almost every day side by side, without realizing how tightly they were stitching themselves into each other’s lives. Now, they moved through their days like strangers—living separate lives in the same city, thinking of each other too often and pretending not to.
It was easier to believe things were different.
They were never that close. She was probably just bored anyway. He’s just been busy. That’s all. Life goes on. People move on.
They persuaded themselves with tiny reassurances, built a quiet wall of denial brick by brick. She got used to not reaching out. Told herself she was being respectful, not overstepping. Told herself that it was better this way—less confusing, less messy. He had things to do. He didn’t need her cluttering up his life with dogs and coffee and half-baked thoughts at midnight.
And Lando told himself she probably didn’t even notice he was gone. That she had a full life, people around her. That he’d been the one stepping into something that was never meant to include him.
So they moved on.
But sometimes, when she walked past a coffee shop and smelled the roast he’d once insisted was undrinkable, she smiled without meaning to.
And sometimes, when he leaned against his desk and took a moment to peer out the magnificent windows and saw the skyline—the one they’d once admired as they sat side by side, wrapped in silence and something that almost felt like peace—he remembered her voice so clearly it made his throat go tight.
But they were fine.
Everything was fine.
The café was unusually slow for a Thursday morning. Rain tapped against the windows, soft and steady, blurring the outside world into a watercolor gray. It had been a quiet morning. The kind that made you forget things had ever felt complicated.
The café hummed with its usual rhythm—steam hissing from the espresso machine, the soft clink of cups stacking, the bell above the door chiming every few minutes with the gentle regularity of breath. It smelled like brown sugar and coffee beans and the damp pavement outside each time the door opened momentarily. Y/N’s apron was slightly stained with oat milk, and her hair was frizzing near her temples from the steam, but she didn’t mind.
Margot had just made some offhand comment about a customer trying to flirt his way into a free muffin, and they’d been laughing about it. That easy, familiar kind of laugh. The kind you only share with someone who’s seen you bone-tired, crabby, half-soaked in a fridge leak, and somehow still loves you.
She stood behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, steam rising from the milk pitcher as she worked on a cappuccino. Margot stood beside her, elbows propped against the edge, peeling a clementine with the lazy ease of someone who’d lived three lives. Perhaps nine.
“You know,” Margot said, voice low, “I was going to give you grief for coming in early again. But then I saw the bags under your eyes and figured—ah. Boy trouble.”
She snorted, pretending to focus on the drink in her hand. The latte art she’d been practicing ended up looking disfigured anyway – like a foamy blob instead of the elegant dove she’d intended for it to be. “There’s no boy. I just didn’t sleep well.”
“Mm. Didn’t sleep well,” Margot mocked, her words teasing as she automatically handed her a wedge of orange. “Back in my day, that was code for heartbreak.”
She took the piece, popped it in her mouth. “Maybe I just drank too much caffeine.”
Margot gave her a look, eyes sharp over the rim of her glasses. “You’ve been drinking too much caffeine since you were sixteen, or perhaps since birth. What is his name, hm?”
“No one.” She tried to smile. “It’s not like that.”
Margot didn’t push. She just reached over, tucked a stray curl behind her ear like it was nothing, like she’d done since the first day they met.
“Alright. No man. Just… promise me you’re eating. And not just those old pastries. Mange un légume ou deux, veux-tu?”
She nodded, throat suddenly tight. “Oui, I promise.”
Margot patted her shoulder. “Good. Now go check if we’ve got any more of that rose syrup. Those girls from the yoga studio will riot if I tell them we’re out again.”
“On it,” she said, grateful for something to do. She pushed through the backroom door, humming under her breath. Shelves lined the walls, cluttered and half-labeled. She tiptoed up, scanning the top rows.
“Come on, come on,” she muttered, stretching for the box.
“Top shelf, right side,” the elderly woman yelled, as if somehow magically able to tell. “Don’t break your neck.”
The stockroom was dim and tight, cold air from the walk-in leaking under the door. She scanned the shelves, fingers brushing labels. Maple, rosewater, the weird chili one no one liked…
And then—
Sharp, but distant. A car backfiring, maybe, or something falling.
What?
Then, a second one.
This one was closer. Inside. Her chest tightened and suddenly, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. The bottle of syrup slipped from her hands and hit the floor with a dull thud. Her heart stopped, then slammed back into rhythm, hard and chaotic.
The air changed. The silence after the sound was worse than the sound itself.
Another one.
Then two more, fast. The fifth and sixth were unmistakable.
Gunshots.
Her breath caught in her throat. Instinct took over, pulling her down behind a stack of inventory before her brain could even process the sound. Her hands trembled where they clutched the edge of a box. Cold air from the fridge brushed her spine, but her skin was burning.She pressed herself back against the metal shelving, heart hammering so loud she was sure it would give her away.
Something told her they stopped, but between the ringing in her ears and the hammering in her chest it was difficult to be certain. As soon as some semblance of silence settled, however, her mouth went dry.
Margot.
Her heart lurched.
Margot had been there. Margot had been standing just a few feet away. Hadn't she?
Without thinking, she moved. Her legs moved before logic could get in the way. Her hands gripped the backroom door, pushing it open with a force that sent it banging against the wall. She burst from the storeroom, shoes skidding against the tile floor. Her eyes searched, the café hazy now, her vision narrowed from adrenaline. The door had been blown inward. One of the front chairs was knocked over. And Margot—
No.
No.
There was so much red.
Margot was on the ground, crumpled awkwardly, like someone had cut the strings holding her upright. Blood pooled too fast, too dark beneath her.
It soaked through the elderly woman’s apron, smeared across the floor like someone had tried to wipe it away. Her glasses were crooked, one lens cracked. She was breathing—barely. Each inhale a wet, rattling sound.
“No—no, no, no,” she gasped, falling to her knees. “Margot. Hey. Hey, look at me—fuck—look at me.”
Y/N’s heart punched in her throat. She was already moving forward, fingers shaking as she kneeled beside Margot, blood soaking her fingers the moment she touched her.
There was so much blood. Too much.
Pressure. That’s what you were supposed to do, right?
She had no clue how this worked. She just remembered some basic first aid crap she’d learned ages ago, something from an infomercial, or was it a book?
So she pressed harder, trying to stop the bleeding, but—
Why was there more blood?
Her breath came too fast, her hands trembling like a leaf in the wind as she tried to find something—anything—to slow it down. She could feel the warmth of it, see the way it spread. Her fingers slipped as she pressed harder, praying for a miracle.
No. No, no, no.
Her stomach lurched.
Margot? Margot, please.
Her fingers were slipping through the blood now, and her head spun, breath ragged. She felt useless. Why wasn’t it stopping? She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to steady herself, but it was impossible.
“No, no. Please, no—”
Margot blinked a second later, but slowly, like it took effort.
Y/N pressed her hands against the wound, not even sure which one, just trying to stop the blood from being everywhere. It just kept coming. She pressed down hard, too hard maybe, but it was the only thing she could do. “C’mon, you’re okay, you’re okay, I’ve got you, I’ve got you, it’s okay—just stay with me, please, Margot, please—”
She sounded young. She didn’t realize it until her voice cracked.
Margot was still warm. Her breath was shallow, lips parted just slightly, like she might say something but couldn’t find the words. One of her hands twitched like it had tried to move.
She curled closer, trying to shelter her somehow. As if that would help. As if her body could protect Margot’s.
Fuck. Fuck. Say something. C’mon, you gotta say something–
“You’re okay, alright? You’re gonna be okay,” she whispered, shaking. “It’s fine. I’ve got you. You’re not going anywhere.”
Somewhere outside, tires screeched. People yelled. Sirens wailed, far-off but getting closer.
Margot coughed, the faint stain of blood tinging the cracks in her lips now. Her hand reached up, weakly, touched her cheek. A gesture she’d done a thousand times.
“No, non,” she chided weakly, barely audible. “Don’t cry, mon chéri.”
“M’not,” Y/N lied, voice breaking. “I’m not crying. I’m– You’re gonna be okay.”
Y/N brought one of her own trembling hands to place over Margot’s, holding it where it cradled her cheek. She shut her eyes tightly, convincing herself she didn’t need to memorize the feel of those soft wrinkled hands in case it was the last time she’d ever get to feel them.
Tears streamed down her cheeks as she tried to hold pressure with one hand now, trying to keep Margot’s blood inside, to rewind time. Her knees were soaked. The world blurred. Her lungs couldn’t find air.
“Where the fuck are they?” she screamed to no one, her voice hoarse with desperation. “Where the fuck is everyone? Anyone! Aidez-Moi! Help me!”
Margot’s fingers slipped away from her face. Y/N gave her hand a gentle squeeze before placing it in her lap, helping her save her strength. Margot would need all the strength she could get, right?
She kept pressing, even when her hands started to ache. Even as those kind grey eyes began to blink more slowly.
“Please. Please, please, please don’t—don’t do this, okay? You still owe me that lemon cake recipe. You still haven’t met my—” Her throat caught. “You can’t. You can’t.”
Her voice broke, and she was talking to herself more than to Margot as she rambled out apologies and pleas.
“You have to be okay. You can’t go. Please don’t leave me. I can't— I can’t do this alone, you know that.”
The words spilled out, raw and desperate. She tried to convince herself, tried to keep some shred of composure. She shifted, trying to lift Margot just a bit, to get a better angle, but the blood kept coming. More, more, more. Her hands were slick with it now, the viscous substance coating her skin. Margot’s lips trembled, a faint breath escaping.
“I’ve got you. I’m here. You’re okay. Please, please... just be okay. Please, please. Don’t leave me, Margot. I can’t—” Her voice cracked, the words coming in jagged gasps. She was losing herself, losing control of everything, the panic squeezing her chest until she couldn’t think straight.
Margot coughed once, an ugly hacking thing before she spluttered. Her chest gave a faint, labored rise and fall, like a thread pulling through water, faint but still there. The corner of her lips formed a weak version of the smile the young woman would recognize anywhere.
“So brave, ma belle fille,” she hummed softly.
For a moment, her heart swelled with anger. Her hand trembled as she held the pressure again. “No, no! Stop it! Please, just hold on. Please, you have to hold on. I can't do this without you, I need you. You’re– You’re all I have, okay?”
Her face morphed into some sad attempt at a smile, a desperate attempt at reassurance. But Y/N’s eyes were too watery and lips trembled too much for Margot to get to see her darling girl’s beautiful smile, sweet and radiant as the sun.
She tried to recall all the other times she’d gotten to see it when her mind provided her with the image of that very first day – a younger Y/N, shy and awkward and looking terribly lonely, smiling brightly at the sight of fresh coffee and something warm to eat.
But Margot struggled to remember that warmth now, struggled to remember the hot summer breeze from years ago. All she felt now was the cold, because suddenly it was terribly cold.
Y/N’s fingers dug into the blood-soaked fabric of Margot’s shirt, the hammering in her chest threatening to crack her sternum in half. She felt the heat of her own tears mixing with the sweat on her face. Everything was slowly blurring together.
Please don’t leave me.
Margot’s hand twitched. It was weak, but it was a movement. The tiniest sign of life, and for a second, Y/N clung to it, her breath coming back in shallow, frantic gasps.
She couldn’t lose her.
Not yet.
The phone call was a blur, the desperation in her voice barely cutting through the ringing in her ears. She wasn’t thinking, wasn’t processing the words as she frantically hit the call button with shaking fingers.
“Liam,” she gasped, the name falling from her lips the one someone may beg a saint. “I—I need you. Please. It’s Margot. She’s—” The words hit her throat like shards of glass. “She’s hurt,and now- and the blood, oh. There’s so much blood–”
The young woman let out a choked sob, something thick and ugly lodged in her chest. “I- I don’t know what to do, it won’t stop, I’m trying–”
“Tell me where you are,” he replied instantly.
“I’m putting pressure, and I keep trying to talk to her but she won’t– she won’t–”
“I need you to tell me where you are, Y/N. Now, alright?” his voice was firm, but not unkind– just stern enough to pierce through the haze of panic long enough to hold her attention.
“I’m– The cafe, the cafe. Please, Liam, hurry!”
The line went dead after that, but Y/N didn’t care. Her focus was on Margot—on the blood, the rising panic, the fear that tore at her insides. Her hands were shaking so violently now, she couldn’t hold on anymore, but she refused to let go of Margot’s limp body. She wasn’t—Margot wasn’t gone.
No, she couldn’t be.
Seconds felt like hours, but then there was finally a sound. Tires screeching, and then the rev of an engine. Her heart leaped as the door slammed open.
Liam stood there, barely minutes after the call ended. He’d come fast, so fast. There he stood, strong and steady, his eyes scanning the scene before landing on her. It was almost like he’d been waiting for her to need him, even though he had no idea how badly. But now suddenly there he was, that familiar silhouette walking through the entryway like some divine savior.
Liam’s here. He’ll take care of everything, and then everything will be okay, right?
Liam knows how to make things okay.
Everything’s gonna be okay.
Sirens sounded in the distance.
She was kneeling beside Margot, her hands stained with too much blood, her heart so heavy it felt it was crushing her lungs, stealing her ability to breathe. Her chest tightened as she watched the paramedics step forward, the familiar beeping of equipment and their cool, methodical movements only making her panic worse.
“No,” she whispered, her voice cracking. She clutched tighter, desperate. Her voice wavered like a child’s, begging like she had nothing left to give. “Please, no. Please? Don’t take her—don’t you dare take her, I need her. I need her!”
They reached closer to her, to the woman who had given Y/N everything but her name – who had given her a roof over her head, clothes on her back, food on her plate, and perhaps most importantly, someone to call family. When they did, the younger woman flinched, instinctively curling around the still-warm body in her hands like there was something still left to protect.
She turned to look at Margot, who must have closed her eyes because she was tired – she always did get tired so easily nowadays – and she asked her. Margot always listened when she asked, right? Margot would listen.
A small, shaky hand barely let go of Margot’s side, only to come up and cradle the side of her face. The action caused a small smudge of deep red to appear on her skin where the color once used to be, and immediately, Y/N hated it.
No, no, that doesn’t look right. Margot wouldn’t like that.
She quickly tried to find a clean corner of her sleeve to try to wipe it away, to wipe away the tingle of blood until she could see the natural blush that always dusted the apple of her cheeks. She’d always been beautiful, Margot – stunning eyes, rosy cheeks and lots of smile lines from decades of good laughs. She’d often tell Y/N that she’d had a “movie star” face when she was younger, that she was on her way to an audition when she ran into the man that would eventually become her husband. The name of the movie she’d gone to audition for changed every time, but they’d simply laugh about it each time.
Y/N would let her tell all the stories she wanted if it just meant she’d talk to her.
“... Margot? Margot, don’t go! Please, don’t go! Please!”
For some reason, Margot wouldn’t answer her.
Y/N shook her gently, desperate for an answer. She didn’t want to let these strangers near Margot, she couldn’t, she wouldn’t.
The paramedics were gentle but firm. They moved to try to pull Margot’s body from her grasp, but Y/N didn’t let go, her fingers wrapped around Margot’s wrist as though the force of her touch could stop everything. She was shaking, crying, unable to breathe. The world was spinning, everything spinning, until—
“Y/N,” came Lando’s voice, low and steady.
She didn’t look at him at first, couldn’t. She was caught in the agony, trapped in the raw panic that gripped her chest.
“Y/N, you’ve got to let go of her, alright? C’mon now,” he spoke, his voice calm and unwavering, but there was a tinge of pain there—something Y/N couldn’t quite place.
But it wasn’t about him. Not right now. Not when Margot was slipping away.
“I—I can’t,” she whimpered, tears streaming down her face. “I can’t... not her. Please. She’s all I have left. I need her!”
His hands were on her then—so gentle, but strong, like something steady in a world that felt like it was falling apart. His warmth wrapped around her as he knelt to sit beside her, his torso firm against her back and his voice a soft murmur against her ear, trying to pull her from the chaos.
“I know,” Lando whispered, his hand sliding stroking softly along her back. “I know, Angel. I’m here. I’m here I’ve got you, yeah? C’mon, I’ve got you, I promise.”
The paramedics approached closer as they attempted to work quickly, carefully, but they were too late. The beeping of the equipment had long since gone flat, as if there had been no pulse at all, the silence so loud it felt like it was crushing her. A deep, suffocating silence that filled the air. She couldn’t hear anything except the ringing in her ears. She could barely feel anything except the numbness that was creeping in, filling every part of her.
And then, Lando’s larger hands, warm and firm, encompassed her own as he gently peeled her fingers away from Margot’s body. His fingers slowly came to close around her own, still curled and stiff from how long she’d been holding on. He wasn’t forcing her, but his touch was steady, unyielding. She could slowly begin to feel the sensation of the pads of his thumbs gently stroking across her knuckles on each hand, a soothing back and forth motion. It was just enough to draw her out of the tight hold she had on Margot.
“Hey, look at me. Look at me.” His voice is low and calm as he crouches beside her. Her hands are slick, shaking, still pressed to Margot’s chest. “You’ve done everything you can, alright? You’ve done enough. Let ‘em take it from here.”
“Oh angel,” he breathes, softer now, like it hurts to say. Like it’s all he’s got. Her hands won’t let go—won’t stop pressing, blood blooming between her fingers. She’s crying now, whispering nonsense, pleading.
“Hey, hey,” he says again, firmer this time as he wraps his arms around her, prying her hands free. “She needs help, and so do you. It’s… It’ll be okay. She’ll be okay. You just have to let them take her, Y/N,” Lando’s voice broke through the fog in her mind.
“Please, angel.”
She couldn’t move. Her body was frozen, her hand still clutching Margot’s lifeless wrist, but his presence was enough to make her feel like she could maybe begin to breathe again. The warmth of him—his strength—was steady, grounding. Like it was starting to melt the frost frozen around the bubble that encompassed this moment.
He pulled her gently into his chest then, his arm around her back, holding her close as she continued to shake, unable to speak. Her sobs came in ragged gasps. She was a mess—her clothes, her hands, her face smeared with Margot’s blood. Her body felt like it didn’t belong to her anymore.
But Lando held her, steady and silent. His chest rising and falling beneath her as she buried her face into the fabric of his shirt. His hand was smoothing over her back, soothing, like he was trying to piece her back together. Like if he held her long enough, she’d feel the chasm in her chest begin to close.
For a long while, they just stayed there, the paramedics doing their job in the background, the sharp scent of blood mixing with the damp smell of rain on pavement. But none of that mattered. Not anymore.
Lando had her, even when everything else slipped away.
a/n: so...
