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saffusthings · 25 days ago

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second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part twenty-five: here in spirit

word count: 4.1k (sorry, i tried to make it shorter)

warnings: mentions of drugs, allusions of drugs being used without consent, allusions of coerced sex work, unwanted touch/harassment

twenty-four | twenty-five | twenty-six

The air in São Paulo was thick with humidity and the smell of gasoline and hot pavement, a constant buzz of life thrumming through the streets even as the sun began to dip behind the skyline. Lando sat at the back of the dimly lit lounge, a glass of whiskey in front of him, untouched. The place reeked of sweat and old cigars, the walls lined with dark wood and overpriced liquor. Clearly, he wasn’t here for the ambiance.

Lando had never understood why men like Piquet insisted on doing business in places like this—dark, overpriced lounges filled with cigar smoke and half-dressed women clinging to men with more money than morals. It was all a show, an ego trip. A way to remind everyone who was in control.

“You Monte-Carlo boys,” Piquet said, slouching back in his booth with a smirk. He swirled his whiskey, letting the ice clink against the glass. “Always think you’re the smartest in the room.”

Lando didn’t bother responding. He just took a sip of his own drink—untouched until now, because he trusted the alcohol here about as much as he trusted the man across from him.

He’d done his research. Piquet had ties to over half the cartels in the region, none of them particularly stable. The only reason Lando was even here was because Brazil was a lucrative market, and if he wanted his product to move freely, he needed a deal with the right people.

Not good people. Just useful ones.

Across from him, Nelson Piquet Jr. leaned back lazily in his chair, fingers drumming against the table as he spoke. “I’ll be honest with you, Norris. I wasn’t sure if you had the balls for something like this.” His smirk was the kind that made Lando’s skin crawl, the kind that belonged to men who thought they were untouchable.

Lando just stared, entirely unimpressed. “And yet, here I am.”

Nelson chuckled, taking a slow sip of his drink before setting it down with a clink. “So you want my network. My ports, my transport, my people. And in exchange, you come here to offer a cut of this… Noxium —which, if your numbers are real, is already eating into my market.”

Lando didn’t react. The numbers were real, and Nelson knew it. That was why he’d agreed to this meeting in the first place.

“I could just take it,” Nelson mused, something sinister brewing in his dark eyes. “Get rid of you, run the product myself.”

Lando tilted his head, feigning boredom. “Sure, y’could try.”

Something about the way he said it made Nelson’s smirk falter for just a second.

Then, just as quickly, Piquet laughed, shaking his head. “Relax, amigo. I like a businessman who has got some bite!” His eyes gleamed with something vile.

“You’re young,” Piquet mused, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, his smirk edged with something condescending. “Smart, I hear. Ambitious. But tell me, menino—” He leaned forward, voice dropping into something conspiratorial. “Are you ruthless enough for this business? Or are you just another greedy coward?”

Lando’s fingers curled around the glass in his hand, slow and deliberate.

He didn’t respond, just let the silence stretch, let his eyes—stormy, relentless—linger on Piquet long enough to make the older man shift slightly in his seat.

Ruthless enough? Please.

Lando had grown up in the cracks of Monte Carlo, where the city’s gold-plated veneer barely covered the rot underneath. He hadn’t been born to privilege or power—just a name, one that meant nothing when you were sleeping on benches and stealing bread from corner cafés. Orphaned young, swallowed whole by the streets, he’d learned the rules fast: take before you’re taken from, strike before you’re struck, never let anyone see what you love because they will use it against you.

At seven years old, he’d held a stolen gun to another child’s chest, hands shaking from hunger, stomach clawing at his ribs. He hadn't even known if the gun was loaded. But the other kid had flinched first, so Lando had gotten to eat that night.

By fifteen, he was running errands for the men who actually ran Monte Carlo, learning which names to whisper and which to keep locked behind his teeth. By sixteen, he was orchestrating jobs bigger than any street kid had the right to. Small, underweight, overlooked, and underestimated—until he wasn’t. Until he was something else, until his name became a shadow resembling a cloaked figure with a foreboding scythe.

Piquet wanted to know if he was ruthless enough?

Lando had carved his empire out of nothing. Had turned himself from a scrawny, unwanted thing into someone that people feared, respected, obeyed. He had no illusions about what it took to survive in this world.

But as the night went on, as he watched Piquet speak—watched the way his men operated, the way he handled things—it was clear as day that this guy was so desperate he reeked of it.

He wouldn’t know ruthlessness if it cut him across the face.

Instead, Lando found himself thinking about her.

About the way she had looked at him that night at the restaurant, warm and unguarded. About the way she had wrapped that bracelet around his wrist, completely unaware of the kind of man she was tying herself to.

She’d told him once that sometimes the system didn’t work, that sometimes someone had to do something.

He hadn’t cared at the time. Hadn’t thought it was his job to give a shit about things that didn’t affect him directly. But sitting here, listening to Piquet laugh, watching the way he took from people just because he could, Lando felt something shift in his chest.

“I think you’ll find,” Nelson was saying, swirling his whiskey in its glass, “that our friends in this region don’t take kindly to newcomers stepping onto their turf without offering something in return.”

Obviously.

Lando’s expression didn’t change. “That’s why I’m here.”

Nelson grinned, all teeth. “Right. Because you are a businessman.”

Lando didn’t respond. He just watched as Nelson leaned back, spreading his arms wide like he was holding court in his own little kingdom.

“I’ll tell you what,” Nelson continued, his voice casual. “We let you move Noxium here, we take a cut. I don’t believe I am alone in seeing…” He trailed off, eyes flickering to something behind Lando. “Other benefits.”

Lando already knew what he’d see when he turned around. Sure enough, a group of women lingered near the back of the lounge—beautiful, young, draped in expensive dresses. They weren’t here by choice. That much was clear.

Lando’s jaw tensed. He turned back to Nelson.

“No.” His voice was quiet, but there was an unmistakable edge to it.

Nelson just laughed. “Oh, come on. No need to get all righteous about it. We are all businessmen here! We all make money in ways we don’t talk about.”

“I said, no.”

Nelson’s eyes narrowed, sensing the shift in tone.

Lando leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His voice was still calm, still controlled, but there was no mistaking the temper underneath.

“You want my product? Fine. We split the profit. But if I hear that any of my shipments get used for anything other than what we agreed on, this deal ends.” A pause, as he stepped closer, positioning himself in the Brazilian man’s personal space. His voice dropped to a chilling whisper. “And if I find out you’re running other operations through my business, I’ll put a bullet in your skull myself.”

Nelson held his gaze for a long moment, the bravado slipping just a fraction. Lando had seen that look before—the realization that he wasn’t bluffing. Still, Nelson smirked, trying to regain control. He chuckled, but there was something uneasy in it now. “Fine,” he settled, clearly displeased but unable to do much about it. “Let us talk numbers now, hm?”

“Yeah, let’s.”

Piquet smirked, leaning forward. “You want distribution, I want a cut. Simple.”

“You want twenty-five percent. D’you think I’m an idiot?”

Piquet spread his hands. “Your product moves through my people, my routes, my infrastructure. This is a fair price.”

Lando exhaled slowly. “Five. Even that should be able to feed someone as greedy as you.”

Piquet laughed, shaking his head, though there was nothing joyful about it. “Not how this works, degenerado. You are the visitor. You play by my rules.”

Lando just stared at him. A long, unimpressed silence.

Piquet’s smirk faltered slightly. “Alright, alright, for my new friend I bring it down to twenty,” he conceded.

“Ten.” Lando countered. “Final offer. Either you take it or I leave, with my goods and my money.”

Another pause. Then, finally, Piquet huffed a weak laugh. “You are… a cocky little shit, aren’t you?”

Lando didn’t answer. He just tilted his head slightly, waiting. In this lighting, it almost appeared as if his lips were curled in the ghost of a smile.

After a beat, Piquet clinked his glass against Lando’s. “Ten it is, it seems. But… know that I will remember this. And if you fuck me over, Norris, I’ll have you buried in the rainforest before anyone even realizes you’re missing.”

Shrouded in the dark, Lando responded with an easy Cheshire smile.

“Alright!,” Nelson cheered loudly, as if expected cheers and applause from his men or the showgirls. When he noticed the lack of enthusiasm, however, he was undeterred. “Let us celebrate with a drink, eh?”

The older man beckoned for the attention of one of the girls who’d been walking around, serving the other guests. Once she leaned down to hear him over the commotion, he grinned, dark eyes gleaming with excitement. “Some drinks for me and my new friend here, gatinha. And be quick about it, eh?”

Lando watched the girl—she couldn’t have been much older than twenty—nod and move to turn away, but not before Nelson grabbed her wrist. It was quick, almost casual, the kind of thing men like him did when they thought no one would care.

But Lando did. His body moved before his brain did. One second, Nelson had his fingers wrapped around the girl’s wrist. The next, Lando had his own hand clamped over Nelson’s.

Nelson barely had time to react before Lando squeezed. Hard.

“Didn’t you hear her?”

The other man’s expression twisted. “What the fuck are you—?”

“She said,” Lando seethed, voice remarkably even, “she’ll bring the drinks when she’s ready.”

A beat of silence.

Nelson stared at him, his lips parting slightly in disbelief. Maybe he wasn’t used to people telling him no. Maybe he thought Lando was just another business partner, another man willing to turn a blind eye.

Lando could feel the pulse beneath his fingers, the slight tremor in Nelson’s wrist as he tried to decide whether or not to push back. Before now, Lando wouldn’t have given a shit.

He exhaled slowly, grip firm as he kept his face unreadable.

This isn’t even my problem.

His mind flashed—gentle fingers tying a bracelet around his wrist, the warmth of her hands, the way she’d smiled and told him she wasn’t going anywhere.

Shit.

Lando squeezed just a little harder. Not enough to break anything—yet—but enough to make his point.

Nelson let go first. The girl stepped back instantly, vanishing behind the bar. Lando didn’t look at her. He only leaned back in his chair, picking up his own drink like nothing had happened.

Nelson forced a laugh, rubbing his wrist. “Such a gentleman.”

“I’m not,” Lando said simply. “I just don’t like people who think they can take whatever they want.”

Nelson smirked, but there was something wary in his gaze now. “Good to know.”

That wasn’t something he would have done a year ago – hell, even six months ago. He didn’t know what had changed. Or maybe he did.

Maybe it was the fact that somewhere else, in a much better place, there was someone who had made him think—sometimes, just for a moment—that he could be better.

It wasn’t until later, when he was getting ready to leave, that he noticed something else.

The same girl—young, barely in her twenties—stood stiffly near the exit of the establishment, eyes darting subtly between Piquet and his men. Her hands were clenched into fists, nervous and fidgety. She had the look of someone calculating an escape route.

He should’ve left. It wasn’t his business.

But something about the way her fingers trembled slightly, the way she flinched when Piquet raised his voice, even in jest—

Fuck.

She would hate him for this, wouldn’t she? If she knew. If she knew the kind of people he did business with. But maybe she was also the reason he lingered. The reason he, uncharacteristically, got involved.

He turned back toward Piquet, voice easy, careless. “She with you, yeah?”

Piquet barely glanced at the girl. “What’s it to you?”

Lando shrugged. “I’ll take her off your hands.”

The Brazilian raised an eyebrow, amused. “You want to buy her?”

Lando didn’t blink. “You said I was a visitor. Consider it a parting gift. Seems she’s more trouble than she’s worth anyway.”

Piquet laughed, then gave the girl a slow once-over. She was pretty, but he had plenty of others. After a moment, he waved a lazy hand. “Fine. Take her. But she’s a pain in the ass, so don’t come crying to me. No refunds, how you say, hm?”

Piquet let out a loud laugh, seemingly endlessly amused by his own joke.

Lando turned to her, his voice low. “Come on.”

She hesitated. Piquet watched with mild amusement, probably waiting to see if Lando would have to force her, but he didn’t. After a second, the girl moved. Slowly at first, then with more certainty. Lando led her out without another word.

Once they were clear of the club, he finally spoke. “Where do you need to go?”

She looked up at him, wide-eyed. “You’re not—?”

“No.” His voice was flat.

A pause. Then, quietly, she said, “...My sister’s place? It’s not far, and I’ll never tell him, I swear–”

He nodded, leading her toward the car. As they stepped outside, into the humid night air, Lando glanced down at his wrist—at the frayed threads of navy and green still tied there.

Looks like she’d been a bad influence on him, after all.

Lando's internal clock ticked like a bomb. He should've been wheels up, Brazil’s neon glare shrinking in the rearview. Instead, he was stuck in this backwater place, Piquet's stench still clinging to his tailored suit.

"Mate, what the bloody hell?" Daniel drawled, leaning against the rented SUV, a picture of casual impatience. "We're missing our window. Vettel's charity thing isn't going to wait."

Lando ignored him, fingers flying across his phone screen, a frustrated scowl etching lines into his usually smooth forehead. His lips pressed into a thin line as he attempted to search something on his phone, scowled, then tried again.

Daniel's eyebrows climbed. "Seriously? We're holding up a jet for this?" A wide grin spread across his face. "No bloody way."

"Shut it, Daniel," Lando snapped, jaw tight.

"You're delaying a private flight—our escape route—for a caffeine run?" Fewtrell butt in, an eyebrow raised in uncertainty. He had an inkling, but he just wanted to be sure. "You know Monaco has coffee, right? Like, actual coffee, not whatever swill they brew here?"

Lando's glare could have frozen hellfire. "It's not 'just coffee.'" His gaze flickered away, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "It's... specific. Special or somethin’."

Daniel let out a low whistle. "Oh, special coffee. Right. I get it."

He didn't get it, not really, but he recognized the telltale signs of Lando's obsessive focus, the kind that usually preceded a meticulously planned heist or a ruthless business move.

Why was Lando suddenly interested in souvenir shopping?

"Christ, mate," Max chuckled, slapping Lando's shoulder as they slid into the SUV. "You just stared down Piquet, the snake himself, and now you're about to throw a tantrum over a bag of beans? Overpriced, probably smuggled, beans?"

Lando rolled his eyes, gesturing for Fewtrell to finally start the car. "Are you two muppets gonna help or not?" The question wasn't an invitation.

"Wouldn't miss it!" Daniel said, his grin a wolfish thing in the dim light. The two men in the front seats knew better than to push. Lando's fixations were rarely trivial. They were the threads that held his meticulously constructed world together, the obsessions that fueled his ambition and masked the darkness beneath.

This’ll be fun.

Lando felt slightly out of place in the warmth of the bustling streets, constantly checking his watch, aware of how ridiculous he looked trying to focus on finding coffee beans that might make a difference to her—as if she’d even care that much.

But Daniel seemed to thrive in the chaos, a natural with the locals, swapping stories and buying knickknacks he didn’t need while Lando trailed behind, his mind still reeling with thoughts of business, of the deal with Piquet, of everything else he had to get done.

Max Fewtrell lingered beside him, his stance protective, but his smile knowing.

The hunt for the right coffee took longer than expected, largely because Lando, despite his tactical brilliance, knew exactly fuck all about specialty coffee.

They made their way to a small, unassuming store that Daniel had picked out, a little café tucked between a butcher’s stall and a flower shop. The smell of freshly roasted beans hit Lando’s nose before they even walked through the door. He felt instantly out of place.

The woman behind the counter greeted them in rapid Portuguese, but Max responded smoothly, and with an exchange of a few words, they were presented with a small selection of the finest beans. Max gestured toward Lando and Daniel with a casual wave, glancing at Lando. “This’ll do. Trust me, this is the one she’s gonna want. Make sure you get a whole batch. Don’t be cheap.”

Lando raised an eyebrow. “I’m not cheap.”

“No,” Daniel said, pulling out his wallet. “But you are clueless. Trust me on this one, alright?”

“What’s the difference between this one and that one?” Lando muttered, squinting at two nearly identical bags.

Max, to his credit, took the moment as seriously as Lando did. He crossed his arms, nodding sagely at the labels. “Think this one has notes of caramel and citrus. And…” he trails off, examining the second package. “That one says it’s more, like, nutty? With chocolate undertones.”

Lando blinked. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Daniel sighed, suddenly appearing by Lando’s side. “It means, boss, that if you pick the wrong one, she’s going to sip it, make a polite face, and say ‘aww, thanks,’ before never touchin’ it again.”

Lando’s stomach twisted uncomfortably at the thought.

“Here.” Daniel finally tossed him a package about half an hour later, grinning wider than a kid on Christmas morning. “This’ll do the trick. The best beans in the region, handpicked by some old guy who’s definitely too proud of his product. I’m sure she’ll love it. And you?” He waggled his brows. “You’ll look like a hero. A dashing one.”

Lando stared at the bag of coffee beans in his hands, a strange, unfamiliar feeling settling in his gut.

Mistaking Lando’s silence for doubt, Daniel spoke up. “There’s even a little postcard with it about how they roast the beans a specific way to bring out the ‘soul of the coffee.’”

Lando rolled his eyes but grabbed the bag Daniel had given him, tossing it onto the counter without another word. He paused momentarily, before grabbing another bag and adding it to his things.

Just in case.

“For the missus,” Daniel’s grinned, looking over at Lando as he spoke to the sweet cashier.

“Thanks,” he muttered, stuffing the coffee into his jacket pocket and checking his watch again. He could already hear the plane engines warming up.

“Now can we get the fuck out of here?”

Lando stood outside her apartment, the bags of coffee in a small grocery bag, his fingers fidgeting with the zipper of his coat. He hadn’t planned for this, hadn’t expected to get this far. It was just coffee. A simple thing. He was just doing something for her—no big deal.

Lando didn’t do things just to be nice. Niceness was irrelevant. Nice didn’t get you ahead. Nice didn’t keep you alive in his world. And yet, here he was, standing at her door, pretending he hadn’t gone out of his way in a foreign country just to get her a damn bag of coffee beans.

His shoes scraped against the concrete as he stepped forward. Somewhere in the back of his mind, something shifted.

What if, one day, it wasn’t about the coffee anymore?

What if it wasn’t even about remembering her smile or hearing her laugh—bright and unguarded, like sunlight cracking through storm clouds? What if it wasn’t about being the guy who could get her whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted?

What if it was shifting, evolving into something else entirely? Maybe it was the way she made him feel like he was more. Like he wasn’t just the sharp, calculating businessman he’d been for so long. Like maybe, just maybe, he was something human. Flawed, vulnerable. Caring.

Disgusting.

Lando knocked, the sound cutting through the quiet hallway, and forced himself to ignore the way his heartbeat stuttered slightly. When she opened the door, her face lit up immediately.

“Oh my god,” she breathed, eyes going wide as she saw what was in his hands. “You actually got it!”

She looked at the bag of coffee like it was some kind of rare artifact.

Lando held it out nonchalantly, as if he hadn’t spent the last few hours making sure to get the perfect one. As if this wasn’t the third store he had gone to. As if he hadn’t let Daniel Ricciardo, of all people, drag him around the streets of São Paulo like some lovesick idiot just to find it. As if he didn’t endure Max Fewtrell’s smug smirking and subtle innuendo for all the 11 hours and 39 minutes it took for him to be standing here.

“’Course I did,” he said with a shrug, the corner of his mouth curling up just slightly. “It’s just coffee.”

It’s not a big deal or anythin’.

Before he could say anything else, she took a step forward, her eyes gleaming—and then her arms were around him, squeezing him into a hug.

Lando froze.

His entire instantly body locked up, every muscle turning to stone at the sudden, unexpected contact.

She was warm. Soft. She smelled like something clean and familiar, warm and sweet. Her arms wrapped around his neck, firm but easy, natural, like she didn’t even have to think about it. And that was the worst part.

She just came up to and wrapped her arms around him without hesitation, without caution. Like he wasn’t someone to be wary of.

The kind of hug that made something deep in his chest go tight. He swallowed, forcing his hands to move, resting them awkwardly against her back, stiff and unsure.

“Uh. Yeah. No problem,” he muttered, voice a little too tight.

She pulled away just enough to look up at him, her smile bright, so happy over something so small. “You actually remembered.”

Obviously, he wanted to say.

Instead, he just gave a small, disinterested shrug. “Was already there. Figured I’d grab it.”

She turned the bag over in her hands, beaming down at it, and Lando should’ve been fine.

This was fine. She was happy, and that was good. In fact, that was the whole point, right?

So why the fuck did it feel like he’d made a mistake?

He needed distance. Now.

Lando took a step back, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Alright, well. I’ll see you around.” His voice was steady now, controlled, detached.

She looked up, a little amused. “You sure you don’t want to come in? I was just about to—”

“No.”

Too fast. Too sharp.

He forced himself to soften it. “I’ve got stuff to do.”

“Oh. Right.�� She nodded, still smiling, but there was a flicker of something—confusion?—in her eyes. She seemed to shrink back, clearly at least a little caught off guard. But who was she to assume–after all, Liam likely had places to be and things to do. He was a businessman, and businessmen were busy all the time, right?

Still, the brightness of her smile faltered momentarily, before she automatically nodded in understanding. Lando turned on his heel and walked away before she could say anything else, before his resolve could slip. He didn’t care.

Why the hell would he?

a/n: not real proud of this one, but wanted to put something out as promised. sorry if it's shitty, guys

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