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 – 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 wasn’t used to stillness like this—forced stillness, where she couldn’t go out, couldn’t work, couldn’t 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 he’d been assigned as her shadow, but with enough mischief in him that it didn’t feel like surveillance most of the time.
He was the one who’d 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. “That’s the west drawing room—don’t ask what they draw in there, no one knows.”
He was the one who snuck her contraband from the kitchen — 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 “gentle movement” and “daylight.” 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 – 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.
Instead, her stomach turned, and she tore her gaze away.
“I’m already starting to go crazy,” she muttered instead. “I have nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one to talk to–”
“You’re talking to me,” Logan pointed out, grinning like that fixed everything.
She shot him a look. “That doesn’t count.”
“Rude.” He tucked his hands in his pockets, unbothered as he glanced at her sideways. “You’ll learn to like it here. Just give it a chance.”
“I don’t want to give it a chance.”
He nudged her shoulder gently as they walked. “If you’re stuck here, you might as well have fun with it, yeah?”
She scoffed.
“C’mon,” he insisted. “I’m sure there’s something for you here.”
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 she’d ever seen, nodding in the breeze.
Logan followed her stare, but was confused. “You don’t like flowers?”
Her jaw tightened. “They’re fine.”
“Fine?” he echoed, chuckling. “That’s a strong opinion.”
She didn’t answer.
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. “You know, there are worse prisons. At least this one’s got chocolate truffles.”
She almost smiled, but the flowers in her periphery soured it.
The first few nights at the estate, she didn’t dare leave her room. The house was too big, too silent, and though Logan’s 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 – 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 air—garlic, 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 didn’t seem surprised.
“Can’t sleep?”
She shook her head, still hovering at the threshold like she’d been caught somewhere she didn’t belong. “Didn’t think anyone would be here.”
“Yeah, well.” He stirred the pot. “I get ideas for recipes I want to try. Don’t like waiting till morning.”
The counter was cluttered—ingredients 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. “Hungry?”
“...Maybe.”
He gestured at a chair without looking. “Sit. I make something for you, hm?”
Tentatively, she took a seat at one of the chairs behind the island, facing toward the stove where Carlos stood. Perhaps it wasn’t 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 should’ve had weakened.
The smell was even stronger now that she’d entered the kitchen—herbs, butter, something savory and warm. She watched him move, economical in the way he worked, even his knives and pans handled with an engineer’s precision.
She cleared her throat. “So, uh… Who are you?”
He smirked faintly at the bluntness, but didn’t stop working. “Carlos.”
“Are you like… a criminal or something? Or a cook?” The words sounded ridiculous out loud, but she couldn’t help herself.
That earned her an actual glance, the faintest glimmer of amusement. “Eh, it depends on the day. Today, you are lucky.”
She tried not to laugh, but it slipped out anyway.
“How do you know him?”
“Lando?” 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. “I am an engineer by trade, but for him I work as… a sort of strategist. For me, I have to think ahead, plan. This way, he doesn’t have to look over his shoulder every second if I’m doing my job right.”
It wasn’t sentimental, but it was something deeper. She caught it in the way he might as well have added so Lando doesn’t have to.
“You look out for him,” she noted quietly.
Carlos didn’t answer. Instead, he just busied himself plating what he’d 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 thing—pasta tossed with a thick sauce, steaming, a slice of bread on the side.
Comfort food.
“Eat,” he said, as casually as if it were an afterthought. “You are too thin. You need your strength, ay?”
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 didn’t feel quite so out of place.
Here, every sound echoed — 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 been… fine. Decent, even. But Y/N reminded herself not to take that as proof. Just because her encounter with Carlos had turned out alright didn’t mean that applied to everyone else. She reminded herself that these men weren’t her friends. It would do her good to remember that regardless of whatever charm or humor or warmth they let slip through, it didn’t erase who they were — criminals.
Probably murderers.
Despite this rather inconvenient fact, Y/N couldn’t 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, stitches pinching in protest, but she couldn’t really be bothered to care that much.
That’s when she heard it — a steady, rhythmic thudding.
Her heart leapt to her throat. For a moment, Y/N was sure she’d stumbled onto something brutal. Perhaps someone was being beaten in one of these very rooms.
She shouldn’t be here.
But she followed the sound anyway.
The noise grew louder until she pushed open a door and found… 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 – each precise like the strike of a cobra. Despite being otherwise occupied, he noticed her presence instantly.
“Lost?” the man asked bluntly.
She hovered in the doorway. “Exploring.”
Finally, he pulled his fists back, breathing steady. He glanced at her, measuring her presence, sizing her up.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Max told her, voice even, not unkind.
She swallowed.
“I was just… walking.”
He grabbed the bag to still it, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. He didn’t dismiss her, though. Instead, he simply waited.
“Uh, who are you?”
Max turned his attention to unlinking the punching bag he’d been using in favor of replacing it with a heavier one. “Max,” he stated, rather plainly.
At her look of confusion, he smirked. “Verstappen,” he clarified.
She nodded in understanding. However, she could only look at the training room for so long before her gaze met Max’s waiting one once again. The deadpan expression he wore was more bored than annoyed, so she decided to test her luck.
“So… what do you do?”
His brow furrowed, like he wasn’t 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.
“Simple. I protect him.”
“Because you’re scared of him?”
“No.” Verstappen’s tone was flat, unflinching. “Because I choose to.”
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 wasn’t 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 didn’t 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.
“Don’t push yourself too much,” he said, matter-of-fact. “If you walk around a lot you will rip your stitches open.”
She blinked. “Is that concern I hear?”
“Practicality,” 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.
Even this room, a guest room, was adorned with luxury most could probably only dream of affording in their homes – dark wood, velvet curtains, gold filigree that caught the gray light spilling through the tall windows.
It would have been breathtaking if it weren’t a prison.
She was tired of pretending it was anything else. The place had no warmth. No history of her own. It wasn’t 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,“I want a plant.”
The blond tilted his head, eyebrows raised. “A plant.”
“Yeah. Something green. Living. You know, the kind that comes in a pot?”
“Right. You’re… decorating now?
She shrugged. “I could be.”
Logan grinned. “Alright. What kind?”
“Hmm… something difficult. Rare. Maybe… a bird of paradise? Or a prayer plant!” She made a show of tapping her chin, like she was trying to come up with the most inconvenient request possible. “Something you can’t just pick up at the corner store.”
He blinked, before laughing. “That’s very specific. You don’t make it easy, do you?”
“That’s the point,” 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 didn’t 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.
“What—?”
“C’mon. Throw it.”
“I—absolutely not.”
He grinned wider. “It’s fun. Promise. I’ll show you.”
She gave him a look but took it anyway, the weight solid in her hand. He set up a target — a half-decaying log at the edge of the trees — and guided her through the stance, the motion.
Her first throw barely stuck in the bark.
“Thumb here, flick of the wrist,” he said, tossing it so cleanly that it landed with a satisfying thunk in the exact center of the log’s 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. “Look at you! You almost killed the floor.”
“Shut up.” She grabbed another and tried again, but her second also flopped uselessly onto the ground.
By the third, the blade actually stuck—crooked, barely holding—she lit up despite herself. Logan clutched his chest in mock horror. “Prodigy. I’m gonna be out of a job soon.”
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 she’d asked for — though there it sat: a bird of paradise in a sleek pot — but others too. There was even a prayer plant with its patterned leaves, and a couple more she didn’t even recognize. Different sizes, different kinds, all clustered neatly on the table by the window.
No note. No explanation.
Just… there.
Her chest tightened, hot with something she didn’t want to name.
So that was it? He’d go through the trouble of finding all this—maybe even scouring Monaco for it—and still not show his face? Just hand it off like she was another logistical problem to solve?
He wouldn’t even face her? Not even to argue? He’d 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 he’d 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 magazine—arched ceilings, gilded sconces, rugs that probably cost more than her old rent—but none of it felt lived in.
During these short excursions, she’d already found a music room with a grand piano under a sheet, a gallery lined with oil portraits she didn’t 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 didn’t 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.
“Sorry. That’s off limits.”
She jumped, hand flying back like she’d been caught stealing.
Oscar was leaning against the wall behind her, arms folded, expression unreadable. It was like he’d appeared out of thin air. Tall, composed, the usual faintly amused glint in his eyes.
“That’s Norris’s office,” he added, tone quiet, clipped. “M’ sure you can understand.”
Her throat went dry. She opened her mouth—half to ask what’s in there? and half to ask what are you doing sneaking up on me like that?—but he was already shaking his head, a single, subtle movement.
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 café. 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 I’m not hurt, why would I…
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 again—her own blood, thick and metallic, flooding her throat, lungs seizing. She clawed for air, but there wasn’t 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, not–
She woke with a gasp, upright in bed, lungs convulsing as though she’d never stopped drowning. Her sheets clung to her damp skin, her heart slamming against her ribs. For a panicked moment, she was sure she’d been pulled back under—that she was still dying, that she’d never actually left that tiled floor.
Cold. It’s still too cold.
It took long minutes of shallow, ragged breathing before she could force herself out of bed.
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.
That’s when she saw it—draped over the arm of a chair. A throw blanket, soft-looking, patterned in muted blues. She couldn’t 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 – 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.
“A bit late to be up, isn’t it?”
She jumped, twisting toward the sound. A figure shifted out of the shadows, half-lit by the fire’s 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 Lando’s name, the spark that had set the whole thing unraveling.
She blinked at him, clutching the blanket tighter. “You nearly gave me a heart attack.”
He lifted his hands in apology, expression faintly tired but gentle. “Didn’t mean to. Could’n sleep myself.”
If Y/N looked carefully now, she could see it—the shadows under his eyes, the lines carved into his face by too many nights like this. He didn’t need to ask why she couldn’t sleep. Men like him already knew. After all, no one lasted this long in this business without collecting a few nightmares.
“Tea?” 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 call—the one that slipped, the one that led to her finding out the truth.
Max cleared his throat, finally breaking the fragile silence.
“He regrets it, you know.”
Her laugh was sharp, bitter. “Yeah? Well he sure has a funny way of showing it.”
“Y’know, this isn’t easy for him either—”
“For him?” The words snapped sharper than she intended, slicing through the room. “What about me? He lied to me. He—he deceived me. Made me believe he cared about me, like I mattered to him.”
Max’s gaze lifted, steady and firm in a way she didn’t expect. “He never lied about that.”
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 would’ve been infinitely worse, would’ve cracked her wide open.
“Yeah? Well, maybe you don’t know him as well as you think you do.”
The fire snapped and hissed, filling the gap between them. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them moved.
Then Max’s voice cut through, quiet but steady. “I’ve known him almost my whole life, you know.”
Her head lifted at that.
“I’ve seen him at his best n’ at his worst.” His gaze stayed fixed on the fire, eyes reflecting the glow. “Especially his worst.”
Something in the way he said it—flat, not for effect—made her sit up a little straighter, the blanket bunching at her elbows. “...What’s that supposed to mean?”
For a long moment, Max didn’t 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.
“You don’t know what it did to him. When you were in surgery.”
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.
“I’ve seen a lot of people die,” Max said quietly. “But Lando? Watching him after you… ” He swallowed. “I didn’t really know until then how someone could be breathing but still not be alive.”
Her breath caught. “What– What are you talking about?”
Max set his cup down, rubbing his thumb across the porcelain rim as though the memory itself weighed too much.
“He sat outside the operating room for… hours. Wouldn’t eat, wouldn’ drink. He had your blood on his shirt, literally dried stiff, and no one could get him to change it. He– 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 didn’t make it. And when the surgeon finally came out…”
Max’s jaw tightened.
“He, like, crumpled. Just, fuckin’, dropped his head in his hands like the floor had given out under him. It didn’t matter who saw. And when they let him see you after… he begged you to wake up. Not loudly. ‘S more like—” Max’s voice grew quieter. He stopped, shook his head, as though the image itself was hard to say out loud. “He just whispered it over and over and over like he was trying to make it happen if he just wanted it badly enough. I don’t think he’s ever been more afraid in his life.”
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 he’d 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.
“I didn’t know that,” she whispered.
Max smiled faintly, though there was no humor in it. It was sad, if anything. “Well, now you do.”
Then he rose, picking his cup up from beside him. The air shifted, heavier as he turned to go.
“Max?” she asked before she could stop herself.
He looked back. “Yeah?”
When the words came, her voice was smaller than she meant it to be. “...Why did you bring him that night? At my apartment?”
Max’s answer came without hesitation. “Because he needed you.”
And then he left, his footsteps fading down the hall, leaving her with the fire and the ache of truths she wasn’t 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 :)
