second chances
mob boss! lando norris x reader
part twenty-six: distance
word count: 3.3k
warnings: this chapter contains violence and gore. reader discretion is advised.
twenty-five | twenty-six | twenty-seven
Lando didn’t need to think.
What he needed was movement.
Work—harder than ever, more ruthless, more efficient, and god help anyone who stood in his way. The weight of her arms around him, that moment of weakness—it couldn’t linger. Not in this world.
Because whatever that had been—whatever she was starting to mean to him—it was a weakness, a slow bleed in his armor. And in this world, a slow bleed was fatal.
So he compensated, overcorrected.
Within two days of returning from Brazil, he had doubled his hours at the warehouse, demanding updates from his suppliers and chemists with a level of scrutiny that bordered on manic. He started showing up to every quality control check himself, watching the men sweat under his gaze. Some of them cracked. Some of them bled.
He picked more fights. Took on riskier shipments. Approved operations that even Verstappen raised an eyebrow at.
When Carlos knocked on his office door late one night to ask if he was going home, Lando didn’t even look up from his screen. “Didn’t realize I paid you to ask stupid questions,” he said coolly.
Carlos didn’t ask again.
The next morning, Lando was in the ring by six.
The gym was still dark when he unlocked the door himself. No music, no trainers, no echo of voices. Just the hum of the overhead lights and the steady thump of his own heartbeat, already too fast for how early it was.
He didn’t wrap his hands. Didn’t warm up.
He just went for the bag—let his knuckles split open on the leather, again and again and again. Raw, purpled arcs blooming beneath the skin—split open in one place where the wrap had come loose, the tape sticky with half-dried blood. It stung when he flexed his hand, but Lando welcomed it.
Pain was clean. Simple. Honest in a way people never were.
It had been three days since the coffee, three days since her arms wrapped around his neck and made him feel like something other than a weapon.
He hadn't seen her since.
Instead, he buried himself in the only thing he knew how to trust: work. There were meetings now—double what he used to take. Late-night negotiations with men whose eyes darted too fast and hands trembled as they signed. More territory, more leverage. Deals struck with hard eyes and a gun under the table. Lando sat through it all like a statue, cold and unreadable, like the chair beneath him was a throne carved from bone.
Fewtrell was the first to notice, of course.
“You haven’t slept,” he muttered, after one particularly brutal morning, watching Lando wipe blood off his hands like it was nothing more than smudged ink. “And you’re bleeding again.”
Lando didn’t even look up. “It’s handled.”
Max didn’t argue. He knew better.
Because if Lando got like this—tight-lipped, volatile, spiraling inward like a storm—it meant someone had gotten too close. And Max had seen what happened to people who got too close.
The fights came next.
They existed with no purpose, no rules. There was just the sharp, metallic taste of adrenaline and the sound of fists meeting flesh in the underground ring he rarely visited these days—until now. There, under flickering fluorescent lights, sweat mixing with blood, Lando could forget and slip into something primitive. A machine of bone and instinct and rage.
He stopped pulling punches.
He didn’t stop until the man he fought stopped moving. Even then, it took two of his own men to pull him back, their voices distant over the ringing in his ears. His breath came in harsh, wet gasps, his shirt soaked through.
“Thought you were supposed to be the smart one,” Max muttered after Lando took a particularly ugly hit to the jaw and spit blood into the sink like it owed him something.
“I am,” Lando said, jaw tight. “I’m just done pretending to be soft.”
And when he looked in the mirror in the locker room after—blood on his cheekbone, lip split open, eyes dark and hollow—he saw a ghost staring back.
Not her ghost. His own.
The boy who had slept in gutters and stolen fruit from markets. Who’d gone cold inside long before he learned how to make others afraid of him. Who once told himself he’d never need anyone again.
So why did it feel like something had gone missing the moment he walked away from her?
He’d spent too long feeling the afterburn of her hug—the way her arms had felt around his neck, the clean warmth of her skin, the easy trust in her body language that made something in him splinter. He hated that part. That human part. He thought he’d killed it off years ago, buried it beneath piles of money, blood, and the reputation he’d built out of nothing but brute force and raw intelligence.
But she had reached it. Worse—she had awakened it.
So now he had to kill it all over again.
One night, after leaving the ring with bloody hands and a bruise already blooming across his ribcage, he sat in the back seat of his car, staring out the window. The city was loud—horns, shouting, flashing neon light against the rain-slicked pavement—but all of it felt muted.
He thought of her again.
Of course he did.
He thought of her – not the hug, not the coffee, not the smile. No – what haunted him was the look in her eyes right after he said no.
That flicker of confusion, followed by the quick mask of understanding. The way she shrank back—not physically, not dramatically, but just enough. Like she realized she’d overstepped. Like she’d made a mistake thinking he was someone warm. Someone she could reach for.
She’s better off, he told himself, dragging a dark red smudge across his cheek. She’s better off bein’ away, better off not knowin’ what I really am.
Because the truth was, if she knew—if she saw him like this—she’d never look at him the same again.
And maybe that was the point. If he couldn’t be touched, he couldn’t be hurt. If he kept himself cold, kept the world afraid, then nothing could break through again.
He leaned his head back against the seat, closing his eyes, letting the ache settle into his bones.
At night, he didn’t sleep.
He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, thinking about how it felt to have her fix his collar absentmindedly, to have her scold him for eating pastries before lunch, to hear her say she’d miss him.
He hadn’t even responded properly. Hadn’t said he’d miss her too, because he wasn’t supposed to.
She was light. He was built from soot and steel and ruin.
So he leaned into the ruin. Drowned in it. Let it take him under like it always had before. Let it remind him what he was made of.
Because if he let softness rot in his chest any longer, it would only get worse. And he couldn’t afford worse. Not in this line of work, not with this name. Not when people were always waiting to find his weakness—and use it to end him.
So he burned the part of himself that missed her.
Or at least, he tried. But the bracelet was still around his wrist, tight and handmade. And no matter how many times he tried to untie it, he never quite could.
He boxed until his knuckles split and his ribs ached, until his fists were slick with sweat and someone else’s blood. Until he couldn’t feel anything except the burn in his lungs and the pounding in his ears. Until he remembered who the fuck he was.
Lando took the pain like he deserved it.
He was colder, crueler. Faster to bark orders, slower to forgive mistakes. The men around him started noticing. They stopped making jokes around him, stopped asking if he’d eaten. Even Daniel, loyal and annoyingly perceptive, had gone quiet.
"You're running yourself into the ground, mate," Daniel finally muttered one night, leaning against the ropes of the ring as Lando stripped off his gloves, hands raw and red.
Lando didn’t even look at him. Just said, flatly, “Ground’s not deep enough.”
It wasn’t about her. He told himself that often. It wasn’t about missing the way she grinned at him when he brought her coffee, or how she’d made studying feel less like drowning. It wasn’t about the way she said his name like it wasn’t something to fear.
It was about control. About reminding himself that he didn’t need softness to survive.
But alone in the dark, shirt clinging to his back, jaw clenched so tight it ached—he wondered. If he wasn’t careful, would he even remember how to come back from this?
Would she still recognize him when he did?
Or worse—what if he didn’t come back at all?
Somewhere in the middle of all of it—between a broken tooth and a dislocated thumb—Daniel cornered him again in the backroom, fists clenched and voice low.
“You think this makes you stronger?” he growled. “You think turning yourself into a fuckin’ animal is gonna fix whatever’s wrong?”
Lando didn’t answer, just stared at himself in the cracked mirror. His face bruised, blood caked on his jaw, eyes gone hollow and dark.
He looked like something dangerous. Something empty.
Good.
Daniel tried again. “You were doing better. A week ago, you—”
“Drop it.” Lando’s voice was a knife. Sharp, final.
And for once, Daniel did.
Because it wasn’t grief they were dealing with, it wasn’t heartbreak. It was a man tearing out the piece of himself that could have one day known love—before it got him killed.
So Lando kept going – more jobs, more blood, more shadows.
Until the boy who’d smiled at fresh lemon biscuits didn’t exist anymore.
Monday morning came with a faint chill in the air, the kind that clung to her sleeves and nipped at her skin as she locked the apartment door behind her. Her boots hit the pavement with their usual rhythm, but her eyes—almost by reflex—glanced toward the curb.
His car wasn’t there.
The spot where Liam usually parked was… empty.
She hesitated, just for a second. Long enough for a frown to twitch at her mouth. Long enough to consider that perhaps she’d been looking forward to seeing him—though she hadn’t let herself think of it that way until now.
It was objectively a stupid thing to be upset about, she told herself. It wasn’t like they had a schedule. He didn’t owe her anything. She knew that.
There was no real schedule per say – no routine set in stone. But still… it had been there last Monday. And the one before that. And—if she was honest—most days she hadn’t even realized how much she’d started expecting him.
She shook it off and kept walking, adjusting her bag on her shoulder.
It doesn’t mean anything.
He had a life. A busy one. She knew that. Important meetings, complicated logistics, probably jet lag from Brazil. Maybe the trip hadn’t gone well. Maybe something came up. Maybe he had the flu. Maybe he just—
Still, her footsteps felt slower as she walked past the spot. Still, she checked her phone—nothing. No text. No update.
Maybe he just forgot.
No. That didn’t sound like him. For all his strange hours and sharp edges, Liam didn’t forget things. He remembered tiny details she only mentioned once. He got her the exact brand of coffee she liked, for god’s sake. He noticed when she was too quiet, brought her pastries when she didn’t ask, made sure she always had a way home—even when she said she didn’t need one.
Maybe he’s just tired. Brazil was a long trip. Maybe he slept through his alarm. Maybe he’s busy, or catching up on work, or—
The list of maybes was longer than it should’ve been.
She forced herself to keep walking, ignoring the twist in her stomach that had no business being there. It was just a ride. Just coffee. Just a guy doing a favor.
That’s all it had ever been.
She sat through her morning classes, half-present, highlighting case law she’d have to re-read later. Her thoughts kept drifting—uninvited, unrelenting—back to him.
This whole drop-off and pickup thing had started months ago, after the string of weird feelings that she hadn’t quite been able to shake. Like someone was watching her, following her. Nothing solid, nothing provable, but just enough to put her on edge.
Back then, she’d been jumpy. Paranoid, maybe. She couldn’t explain it, not exactly—just that lingering feeling that someone had been watching her. Following her from across the street, lingering too long near her building. It was probably nothing, she’d told herself.
And then, things changed. Liam would just show up, leaning against the hood of his car like it was the most natural thing in the world, coffee in hand, eyes already on her. He would say something casual about “sketchy corners” and “shit lighting.” He would lie and say he was heading that way anyway.
And the funny thing? She hadn’t felt unsafe since.
She hadn’t asked questions. Something about his tone had made them unnecessary.
Since then, he’d been a steady, if unpredictable, presence. Not every morning—but enough. Enough that she noticed the difference today. Enough that she’d started associating his voice with the beginning of her day. His car, parked just slightly crooked. The quiet calm of his presence beside her, never demanding, never pushy—just there.
And now he… wasn’t.
She tried not to overthink it, but she did. Of course she did.
It could have been any of a thousand different things, right?
Maybe Brazil didn’t go well. Maybe the time zone shift was hitting him hard. Maybe he caught something on the flight back. Maybe he was swamped with work. Or maybe—
Maybe she had crossed a line.
The thought crept in slowly, but it stuck, solid and uncomfortable.
She’d hugged him, without thinking and without asking.
Her stomach turned.
God, what if that was too much?
He hadn’t exactly pushed her away, but he hadn’t welcomed it either. He’d gone stiff in her arms, like he didn’t know what to do with the contact. And then he left. Fast, like he couldn’t get away quick enough.
She shouldn’t have assumed. Just because he bought her coffee. Just because he remembered the brand and hunted it down in a foreign country. Just because he stood in her doorway like he wanted to be there.
Liam was...busy. He was a businessman. He moved through life with detachment, calm and unreadable. He probably did this for lots of people. She was just another name on a long list of good intentions.
Still, the quiet this morning had felt louder than it should’ve. His absence clung to the edges of her day like smoke. It trailed her through campus, followed her into the library, haunted the space in the corner that night when she closed up at Books & Brews.
She hated how much she noticed.
They didn’t text much. Instead of making any real conversation, she’d just send him little things.
A picture of a dog in a tiny raincoat on her walk to class. A blurry photo of latte art she’d been practicing, captioned don’t laugh. A random quote from a book she thought he’d like, even though she knew he’d probably roll his eyes and skim it at best.
Nothing heavy, and certainly nothing that demanded an answer. Just enough to keep a line between them—thin but steady.
But then, she saw him.
She was on her lunch break, standing in line at the corner market by the office, when she glanced through the fogged-up window and caught a familiar profile by the far register. She knew that posture. Even from a distance, she could recognize the casual indifference, the way he held himself like nothing in the world could touch him.
Liam.
There he was, dressed in a sharp coat, collar turned up, half a scowl pressed into his jaw like it had been carved there.
Her eyes dropped to the cup in his hand. Paper, stamped with the logo of his old café. Not the familiar emblem of Books & Brews. Not the little tucked-away place with the fresh cinnamon buns he had pretended not to like and then ordered three days in a row. Back to the place he used to swear tasted like “burnt incompetence.”
It shouldn’t have meant anything.
But god, it did.
He hadn’t said anything, hadn’t explained this new distance, hadn’t replied to her last few messages except for a thumbs-up and a vague “lol.” No more wry comments or late-night one-liners. No more smirking emojis that didn’t match his tone but always somehow made her smile anyway.
And now—he was back at the café he’d once claimed to hate. Like nothing had changed. Like she hadn’t happened.
She stepped out of line and left the store without buying anything.
She stopped texting after that.
Not all at once. It was a slow fade, the kind that almost didn’t hurt until you realized it had already disappeared.
No more pictures of dogs. No more awkward selfies with whipped cream on her nose. No more texts saying, this book made me think of you, don’t ask why.
Just... silence.
Lando’s mornings got quieter. His phone stayed dry, empty but for meeting reminders and business alerts. No dumb memes at 2AM. No pink hearts next to her name lighting up his lock screen like it meant something.
It pissed him off more than it should’ve.
Wasn’t this what he fucking wanted?
He’d made the choice. He’d stepped back. He’d pulled the plug before it could get messy—before she could start expecting things from him that he didn’t know how to give.
So why the hell did his car still smell like her perfume?
“She ghost you?” Fewtrell asked casually, leaning against the doorframe of Lando’s office, sipping on a drink he hadn’t paid for.
Carlos looked up from the couch where he was half-asleep. “Did you finally scare her off?” “‘Bout time,” Daniel added from the armchair, flipping a stress ball in one hand. “We were beginning to think you had a soft spot.”
Lando didn’t look up from his laptop, jaw tight. “I’m busy.”
“Busy being miserable?” Verstappen quipped. “Mate, your car still smells like a goddamn rose garden. Not exactly inconspicuous.”
“Seriously,” Carlos chimed in. “You used to smell like leather and rage. What happened?”
“Shut up.”
“Come on,” Daniel said, pushing. “You think we haven’t noticed? You vanish for hours at a time. You smile at your phone like a bloody idiot. And then all of a sudden you’re picking fights with everyone. Even your punching bag looks scared.”
Lando’s eyes flicked up, cold. “Drop. it.”
“Look, I don’t care who she is,” Max said, his tone softening slightly, “but if she made you less of a dick, I kinda liked her.”
That got a muscle ticking in Lando’s jaw. He stood up, abruptly enough that the chair screeched.
“She’s not your business!” he bellowed, heading for the door. “None of this is.”
“Then why’re you acting like you lost something?” Daniel mumbled after him.
The room was empty by then, but Daniel said what everyone was thinking anyway.
“You’re the one who let go.”
Logan’s voice cut through the radio later that week, giving an update on her security detail. Something about her late-night shift. The building entrance. A guy lingering too long near the stairwell.
Lando snapped the button to put the call through.
"She doesn’t need you anymore," he said flatly.
Logan paused. "...Sir?"
“She’s off the list. Effective immediately.”
And just like that, he cut the thread.
But sometimes, late at night, he still felt it—tight in his chest, like something he couldn’t un-pull. Something he’d let go of, only to realize too late that it might have been the very thing holding him together.
a/n: this one is my offering, especially dedicated to @oscobabe and @eclipsedcherry, whose every comment and ask makes me excited to post each chapter.
i hope u like it :)
and as always, please lmk what you think! i love hearing what y'all have to say
