second chances
mob boss! lando norris x reader
part thirty-six: peek-a-boo
word count: 4.3k
warnings: this chapter contains themes of psychological manipulation. reader discretion is advised.
thirty-five | thirty-six | thirty-seven
The car rumbled beneath him, low and steady as the rain smeared against the windshield. Lando adjusted the dial on the heater, elbow propped against the door, fingers tapping restlessly against his thigh. He was driving steady at some unknown speed, needing the hum of the engine to help him untangle his thoughts. There were so many moving pieces in his head, so much white noise.
He was interrupted from his own thoughts when his phone buzzed against the center console: Logan.
Lando picked up, pressing it to his ear.
“Talk.”
“Are you alone?” Logan’s voice was lower than usual.
No nonsense. Good.
“For now.”
Logan’s voice came through, crackling slightly through the speaker. He was breathless, but there was an edge to it — anticipation, maybe, or dread.
“You’re gonna want to hear this.”
Lando sat up straighter, eyes narrowing. “Spit it out already.”
A rustle on the other end. Oscar’s voice chimed in next, calmer — more clinical. The Aussie always could be trusted to get straight to the point. There was a reason that Piastri was the one Lando trusted to keep a pulse on everything – and perhaps more importantly, to balance out Logan.
“You remember that Tuesday — the one where you said you were being followed? When you cut through the back streets and ended up at the girl’s café?”
Lando’s jaw flexed, not saying a word. Oscar took the silence as clearance to continue.
“There’s CCTV. Six days before Margot’s death. Someone was loitering across the coffee shop around closing, basically the same time that Y/N locks up.”
“And?” Lando’s voice was smooth, detached. But his fingers drummed against the steering wheel, once, twice.
“We couldn’t get a clear shot of the guy’s face in those stills,” Logan interjected, “but the build’s familiar. He looks slight, stands with his shoulders back. Kinda twitchy, and probably around my height. We thought it could be Enzo, maybe Arthur.”
Lando exhaled slowly, his breath fogging the window. “Enzo’s been in this business a long time, he knows better then to pull some shit like that. I may not like him, but evn I know he plays by the rules.”
He stopped for a moment to consider the alternative. “And if we’re thinking Arthur… Well, the kid’s not cocky. He wouldn’t be that bold, showing off like that. That’s more like Charles’ style.”
“No,” Oscar considered, “you’re right, he’s too new to confidently pull something like that…”
There was a moment's lull while he tried to piece together what he felt like he already knew, just needing to connect the ideas in the right order.
“But…” Oscar continued suddenly, a lightbulb going off in his head. ”Maybe he isn’t that cocky, but maybe he is that stupid. You remember that day you thought you were being followed?”
“I led them to her,” Lando muttered, mostly to himself. “Fuck.”
Logan jumped in again, eager to add to the discovery. Everything was beginning to make much more sense than it had in weeks. “Osc and I also pulled traffic cams from two nights before the shooting. Guess who was seen three blocks out?”
Lando didn’t speak. He didn’t have to.
“Arthur.”
Lando exhaled slowly through his nose. “Arthur Leclerc?”
“Yup. Clean shot of him walking with a duffel bag. Same red jacket from the pier photo. Ballistics haven’t matched yet, but…”
“It’s him,” Lando stated, quiet and certain. “It has to be.”
A beat passed. The rain only intensified.
“And Margot?” Lando finally asked.
Oscar hesitated. “Ballistics came back — clean match to a weapon registered to the Leclercs' private armory. Restricted, but not unique. Guess who last signed it out?”
Lando didn’t answer. He already knew.
“Arthur.”
His grip on the wheel turned his knuckles white. “How long were they watching?”
“Hard to say. Maybe days. Maybe longer.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me sooner?” His voice dropped, more lethal than loud.
“We didn’t have the link until today, Norris,” Logan snapped back. “We’re not sleeping out here, Norris. You’re not the only one who cares.”
Lando didn’t respond. He couldn’t. That knot behind his ribs had already begun to burn.
“There’s more,” Oscar added carefully. On the other end, he shot Logan a wary look, knowing full well their boss wasn’t going to take this next information well.
“We’ve been monitoring a few encrypted comms going out from the Leclerc side. There’s chatter about a meet tonight — late. Supposed to be a small crowd. Not security, more of an off-the books thing with just the key players. I think it’s some kind of negotiation with a new supplier.”
Lando’s gaze sharpened. “Where?”
“South Docks, the warehouse off Pier 17. The new guy – some supplier apparently – he goes by Nemo. Logan double-checked and he doesn’t show up on anything except a few old import documents and a long-dead crypto chain. Whoever he is, he’s new blood — and very careful.”
Lando scoffed. “Calls himself Nemo? Bit dramatic, innit?”
Logan laughed dryly. “Yeah, pretentious as hell, for sure. Probably thinks he’s being clever. Like, No one? Come on, like, at least be creative, right?”
Lando ignored the question entirely. “And you’re sure Arthur will be there?”
“No,” Oscar said firmly. “But someone will be. Someone who can confirm it.”
Lando’s mind sharpened like glass under pressure. Everything inside him was already whirring, buzzing, calculating all of the possible angles, risks, proximity. Tonight could very well change everything.
As Lando became occupied in the chamber of his own thoughts, Logan took the opportunity to ask, “Hey, Boss. You want us there?”
“No. No, you’ve done enough. I need this one to be quiet. Not much to it, yeah?” He clicked his blinker, merging left as the rain picked up once again.
Oscar’s voice softened just slightly, but his words were blunt, accented with his trademark directness. “You’re not gonna to do anything reckless, are you?”
Lando smirked, humourless. “What about me makes you think I ever play it safe?”
“Careful, mate. You’re almost starting to sound like the old you.”
Lando didn’t deny it. “I’ll be fine. I’ll handle it.”
“You’re just not the same without—”
Lando cut him off. “I said I’d handle it.”
Silence.
Then, after a beat, Logan added, his voice an octave quieter this time, “Don’t be late.”
The call ended.
Somehow, they were on the floor. Again.
Not the couch, not the bed, not even the worn armchair that creaked when she curled into it. No — tonight, it was the living room rug, some half-fuzzy thing she'd thrifted ages ago, the kind that caught lint and comforted bare feet. A quiet movie played on her laptop, propped up on a stack of books. The living room lights were off, save for the soft, amber glow of the standing lamp.
Y/N’s body was sprawled across his like it belonged there, like an octopus’s tentacles draped lazily across its favorite rock.
It’d be kinda cool to be her favourite rock, wouldn’t it?
She hadn’t even asked this time. She’d just flopped onto him like he was her designated mattress, letting out a content sigh that made his chest do that annoying flutter thing he kept pretending wasn’t a real feeling.
It was quite inconvenient, really.
He wasn’t sure when it started — maybe the first time she fell asleep curled up against him while they watched their daily episode of some home renovation show she’d found on Netflix. But somewhere along the way, she’d somehow ended up creating a habit of using him as a nap surface. Couch, bed, armchair — it didn’t matter. If he was still, warm, and breathing, she was probably half-draped across him within the hour.
Right now, she was lying across his chest on the living room floor, the carpet flattened beneath them, both too full and too lazy to move after the impromptu pasta night they’d cooked together. Her cheek was pressed to his collarbone. His fingers toyed absently with the ends of her hair.
She’d been doing that more lately—using him as furniture. Neck tucked into the crook of his shoulder, arms folded beneath her like a cat. Her head pressed to his chest, slow breaths syncing with his. Not quite a relationship. Not quite not. Not exactly cuddling. Not not cuddling either.
Just her weight against him, warm and familiar, like trust.
“Christmas is coming up,” she said suddenly, her voice soft from the edge of a half-yawn.
He looked down at her. “Is it?”
She rolled her eyes. “Yes, you absolute grinch. We should do something.”
“What, like presents n’ shit?”
“Yeah, silly,” she said, sitting up just enough to poke him in the ribs. “It’ll be fun! We can make dinner and decorate cookies, and– oh! You’d look so lovely in a little Christmas sweater.”
His grin pulled, slow and smug. “Little? Sweetheart, there is nothing little about me…”
“I– Oh my God, you are so gross!”
He laughed as she smacked his arm with a throw pillow.
“And yet you keep me around anyway,” he said with a grin, nudging her gently. “C’mon, admit it. You love me—”
“Right, that’s it.” She sat up suddenly, just enough to start halfheartedly pushing at his chest. “Get out. Go on. Out the door.”
She began pushing at his shoulder dramatically, trying to shove him toward the door despite his zero cooperation and significantly greater body weight. He laughed, but caught her wrists before she could fully dislodge him.
“Oi! Okay, okay,” he said, laughing, hands up in surrender. But something in his chest flinched — small and sharp. Not real panic, but something like the memory of it. He cleared his throat, eased his voice low. “I’ll be on my best behavior. Happy?”
She stopped mid-push, flopping back down onto him with a huff of faux exasperation and a smile like sunshine peeking through curtains. “Very.”
He let his hands drop, and she settled back beside him — not quite touching this time, but close enough that her shoulder brushed his arm. They had switched to some Hallmark movie now, the screen playing some generic rom-com snow scene where everyone wore matching scarves and nobody paid rent.
Somewhere between reaching over to fidget with the laptop’s volume and adjusting the blanket, her head found its rightful place against his shoulder again like it had always been there. Her eyelids fluttered once, then settled. He let his hand rest gently at the bend of her knee, warm beneath the blanket.
For a while, it was just soft TV noise and the patter of rain. Her breathing slowed. Her hand drifted to rest just under his collar, fingers curled gently into the fabric.
Minutes passed by like that — soft, unrushed. Her eyelids began to droop after a while. Even though she’d promised not to fall asleep before the end of the film, he could feel her beginning to nod off again.
Just as he’d begun contemplating pausing the movie for them to continue some other time, he heard her voice, barely above a whisper: “Li?”
He hummed in response, eyes still on the muted screen.
“Do you think we could have a real Christmas this year?”
His eyes flicked down to her. His heart stalled a little. “What d’you mean?”
She hesitated, eyes still closed. “Like in the movies. I always wanted a Christmas like that.”
His voice gentled. “How d’you mean?”
“With lots of people. And laughter. And food.” Her fingers twitched lightly in her lap, like she was tracing something only she could see, fingertips chasing a figment of a lingering dream. “Y’know. Like a real Christmas.”
She said it like she didn’t think she’d ever had one.
Lando swallowed something bitter in his throat. He thought of his own fractured memories—winters spent under broken street lamps and makeshift roofs, his knuckles raw from cold and fights. Holidays were just colder days with louder sirens.
He looked over at her, curled small now against the side of him.
“Don’t you worry about it, princess,” he said softly. “We’ll have us a nice Christmas, yeah?”
She didn’t answer right away. But then she smiled sleepily, her eyes still closed.
“...We will?”
“Yeah. We will.”
“Okay,” she whispered, something soft and sacred, as her body settled in closer. Sleep found her just seconds later, slow and sweet. With the pattering of the rain, the hum of the heater, and the steady beat of his heart as her lullaby, she fell asleep against his shoulder, warm and content.
Lando let his head rest against the cushion again. He stayed like that a while — watching the water droplets race down the side of her windows in the faint blue light of the screen against the endless backdrop of the dark night sky, feeling the rise and fall of her breath, and wondering what it would feel like to deserve something like this.
Something warm. Something real.
Something like a Christmas worth remembering.
Half an hour after Lando was semi-successfully able to peel the warm body practically glued to him (he’d had to resort to leaving a misshapen, him-shaped lumb made of blanket in his stead, and even then she’d grumbled in discontent), Lando was pacing the length of the warehouse rooftop.
He proceeded to occupy himself with every other minute, mind-numbing task he could think of.
Checking his watch. Scanning the perimeter. Checking his watch. Listening for potential footsteps. Checking his watch.
Unclipping his mag, tossing it in the ait, catching it with his backhand, and clipping it back in, all in one smooth motion.
And checking his watch again.
Finally, it had been over an hour.
For fuck’s sake.
Yet still, the docks below were quiet.
Too quiet.
Lando paused, steadying even his breathing to ensure he was hearing correctly.
Yup.
There was no chatter. No footsteps. No approaching headlights. There was just the sound of the sea slapping against rusted shipping containers and the occasional creak of metal in the cold night.
He’d gotten here well before the meeting time, and yet still — nothing.
Logan had gotten the tip two nights ago – overheard from a slippery supplier with a penchant for whiskey and oversharing. He’d then confirmed it from a second source, a friend of a someone who knew one of the Leclerc Palace guards – the Leclercs were scheduled to meet the shadowed figure still known only as Nemo, supposedly a foreign manufacturer who liked to operate offshore, both literally and figuratively.
It had sounded promising.
Too promising.
Looked like someone had perhaps tipped them off to Lando’s little visit.
Fuckin’ hell.
He’d been circling smoke for days.
A flash of license plates in CCTV. A glint of silver paint from a trailing car in the corner of a café’s security footage. A warehouse employee’s offhand remark about shipments being rerouted through “Il Predestino’s” docks. All roads that once led somewhere now suddenly led nowhere.
Every time he thought he had a lock on Leclerc, the bastard vanished like a ghost, leaving behind nothing but cold cigarette stubs and the distinct sense of being watched.
Lando was seething. The kind of slow, volcanic fury that sat in his spine and burned all the way to his fingertips. He hadn’t stopped moving. Had barely slept. His hands smelled like gunmetal and bitterness. His eyes were bloodshot, but clear – clearer than they’d been in weeks.
Every safehouse he checked, every pier he scouted, every pub he frequented, he looked for them, but the truth seemed to be that the Leclercs had vanished.
Daniel was gone. Margot was gone. And Leclerc was still breathing.
Oscar had called it "a string of bad luck." Logan called it the signature of “il predestino.”
Bullshit.
He wasn’t interested in fate. Only facts. And facts meant leads.
So when a tip finally came in about the rescheduled meeting with Nemo — the elusive third-party manufacturer Leclerc had allegedly been courting — he didn’t even hesitate getting back in his car and speeding over to the given coordinates.
Dock 17. Midnight. An abandoned dock. No cars, no guards. Just cold wind, stale seawater, and silence so loud it made his teeth grind.
He had arrived early. Waited in the shadows. Boot pressed to the pavement. Heart steady, hand on his gun.
Midnight passed. So did twelve-thirty. By one, he knew.
The warehouse was empty.
He stalked inside anyway, boots echoing against the concrete. He had expected shadows. But all he had gotten was a whole dockload of nothing. There were no crates and no men. There weren’t even any whispers of movement. All that he found was just a small, thick paper envelope left where a beam of moonlight caught it like a spotlight. Lando might’ve almost missed it entirely, if not for the flicker of white catching in the corner of his eye.
He opened it. Inside, he discovered a single flash drive tucked inside the weatherproof casing of a nearby buoy, like all this was some kind of goddamn scavenger hunt.
He should’ve known.
He did know. Somewhere beneath all the desperate hope that tonight might bring him one step closer to vengeance, something in his gut had already clenched the second he saw how still the water was.
Still water. Still air. Still nothing.
He jammed the drive into his phone with shaking fingers. It played instantly.
The video was grainy, a rough silhouette standing in front of what looked to be the bottom of some old, grandiose painting. However, the voice was unmistakable — Charles Leclerc’s smooth, cruel tone curling with arrogance and smugness.
What I wouldn’t do to–
“There is no Nemo, Norris. Clever of you to figure that out. Latin… it is not dead yet, eh?”
He appeared to find his own joke quite funny, holding a palm to his chest as he took a moment to laugh at his own supposed cleverness before finally speaking again.
“Ah Lando,” he smiled, all boyish and handsome and charming before it dropped into something darker, more sinister. “It is like this, oui? I know what you want. You want to hear someone say it, don’t you? Alright then. All this blood is on your hands. Yours.
Lando Norris, you knew what you were doing the second you brought her into your world. And the second Margot opened the wrong door. You knew what would happen to them!”
The smug bastard had the audacity to laugh then. He laughed.
Lando was going to kill him.
The video was not yet finished. It seemed that the Monagasque still had more to say.
“So chase me, if it makes you feel better. Set the whole goddamn city on fire. I do not care. I will still be ahead of you, Lando Norris. Always.”
“Sleep well.”
The video ended.
Taking the small thumb drive out of his phone, Lando stared at it for a full minute.
Then it hit him.
Nemo.
No one.
There was never going to be a meeting.
No manufacturer. No shipment. No allies. Just Leclerc pulling his strings and probably watching from some gilded corner, laughing himself hoarse. He’d fed Lando a ghost chase, and Lando had swallowed it whole. He could feel the bile rise in his throat.
“You son of a bitch,” he whispered.
Lando didn’t realize his hand was clenched so hard that the drive cracked in two.
He stood there too long, the wind needling through his jacket, face blank with rage. He crumpled it up even tighter in his fist, letting its uneven and jagged ends dig into his skin like some kind of penance for the foolishness he felt twisting in the pit of his gut, the shame and fury that sparked alongside it.
The whole damn thing—this entire wild goose chase—had been another breadcrumb on a leash. A show of power. A taunt.
Charles Leclerc had played him.
Lando laughed. Just once, sharp and humorless.
Then he crushed the drive to pisces in his fist, turned, and threw it into the water with such force his shoulder popped.
Charles Leclerc was playing him like a goddamn fiddle. And he’d let it happen, like a puppet dancing to strings of grief.
"Fuck," he rasped under his breath, the word tight and hoarse.
He could feel his pulse in his temples. His breath came short. His throat burned with something animal.
Then—
He screamed.
Loud. Wordless. Raw. His voice echoed off rusted shipping containers and oil-stained pavement, carved through the cold like a blade. He kicked the nearest crate so hard his boot cracked against metal. He punched a wall and left blood behind.
He could still hear Daniel’s laugh.
Could still see Margot’s smile.
He'd been played, toyed with, outpaced by a ghost in a fucking tailored suit.
The blood isn’t mine, he wanted to scream. It’s yours. Yours!
He didn’t even realize his hands were shaking until he got back into the car and gripped the steering wheel like it had personally betrayed him. His phone buzzed—probably Oscar or Logan again, with another non-update—and he chucked it into the passenger seat.
Blood on his hands? The bastard didn’t get to say that. Not after Margot. Not after Daniel.
No—he wasn’t going to keep circling this game like a trained dog.
The entire damn meeting had been a setup, a trap designed to make Lando look like a fool. A distraction. A calculated move to keep him running in circles, while Leclerc played his hand behind the scenes.
Lando’s chest was tight with fury. He could feel his blood heating, his pulse hammering in his temples. He wanted to throw something. Punch something. Rip apart the docks until nothing was left. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t let the anger cloud him, not when he was so damn close.
The only thing he could hear in his mind was the sound of his own voice saying, I’m done.
The bastard had been playing him all along.
And now Lando was done being played.
Lando was sitting in his car, the engine still idling, his fingers drumming rapidly against the steering wheel, furious and restless. He was tempted to text Oscar, or Logan, or anyone who could give him a chance to see reason, to talk him out of committing bloody murder.
But he didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want anyone to tell him he was overreacting. And most importantly, he didn’t want anyone to stop him.
The only thing he could hear in his mind was the sound of his own voice saying, I’m done.
His eyes narrowed as the thought hit him. He knew where Leclerc would be next.
There was only one place that mattered now. The only place so sacred that even he’d never thought to take the fight there before.
After all, Lando Norris was many things – a thief, a killer, a liar, a con. But even despite all these things, he was still a man, and even criminals had codes.
There were personal ones, sure, but there were also fundamental rules to this life just as there were rules to war. They were not moral or good or kind. They weren't just, and they were barely fair. But these rules were the only things separating the madness from destructive chaos, acting as the thin line between simple business and unparalleled, boundless bloodshed.
And of the most basic of these rules?
A man’s house is his castle.
Their house is not to be messed with, no matter the dispute. Personal or professional, no sane man would invite the carnage that would come from taking the fight to the doorstop of a man to whose home you have arrived uninvited. There was little sympathy for a fool who knowingly walked into an enemy’s den unwelcome and then expected civility.
But at the moment, The Reaper was all out of civility.
He threw the car into gear, tires screeching against the asphalt as he peeled out of the dockyard and shot down the road. Every turn he made, every corner he whipped around, only fueled the rage simmering in his gut. He drove straight to the Leclerc estate, to the house that sat perched above the city like it owned the world.
He wasn’t going to stop until he got what he needed:
His pound of flesh.
The drive was a blur. He barely remembered the turns, the lights, the sound of tires screeching on wet asphalt as he tore across the city, past half-lit storefronts and shuttered windows. The Leclerc estate sat on the edge of old money and arrogance—a marble-clad fortress with ivy-covered gates, the kind of place that wasn’t a home so much as a monument to legacy.
He parked crooked on the curb like he didn’t give a shit about parking laws. When Lando climbed out, he marched straight to the intercom panel without so much as a pause.
It was late now, nearly 2AM.
He rang.
Nothing.
He rang again, this time holding it.
Still nothing.
Somewhere in the shadows, a motion light flicked on. Lando barely blinked. His jaw was tight enough to creak, fingers still twitching from the adrenaline that hadn’t found a place to settle.
He knew how insane this was – showing up like this with no backup, no guarantee the gates wouldn’t open to armed guards.
But rage had never cared much for reason.
Finally, he stepped back., just far enough to see the upper windows. From here, he could see one light on, maybe a hallway. Maybe someone was watching.
He raised his voice, shouting to any living soul that’d hear him.
“Tell your prince,” he bellowed, “I’m done playing.”
The light clicked off.
Lando didn’t move. He didn’t flinch. He just stood there in the cold, breathing heavily, letting the wind bite through his jacket. The tension inside him wasn’t a scream — it was quieter, darker. It rumbled like the incoming storm, a pressure behind the ribs, crackling with promise.
He wasn’t backing down now.
Not even if it killed him.
a/n: hello im so sleep sorry if this is not edited properly my eyeballs are too tired. hupe you guys like it!
