for nalak

((Author’s Note: This story is set in the same world as God, Her Boots!, and follows some of the plot lines laid out there. You don’t need to read the original to understand it, but it helps.))

Nadia Collins was stretched across a lounger on a terrace in Saint-Tropez, a glass of chilled Château Minuty 281 sweating in her hand and the Mediterranean Sea glittering below like a spread of stolen sapphires. Her naked feet rested at the foot of the lounger, and her boots were right beside it, polished that morning out of habit more than necessity. She hadn’t needed them in weeks. There were no crime scenes and no nosy detectives to send scurrying in that part of Europe—only the sun and a delicious bank account that had grown fat enough to deserve a rest.

Her phone buzzed against the tiles. She let it ring twice before glancing at the screen. Andrew. Of course. Her favorite badge had been useful in ways she hadn’t anticipated, and lately, he’d developed the charming habit of reporting things she hadn’t even asked about.

“Speak,” she said.

“Miss Collins.” His voice was low and cautious, the way it always was when he called from inside the precinct. “I’m sorry to disturb you during your vacation, but there’s trouble brewing around here.”

“What sort of trouble?”

“Vincent is talking to people. He’s been asking about your properties. He met with Ortiz twice this week, and I have every reason to believe they’re planning a coup.”

Nadia set down her wine. The sea was still glittering, but she wasn’t looking at it anymore. Her thoughts drifted to the man he had mentioned, a person she had never liked, but had grown to tolerate.

Marcus Vincent was an early-forties, broad-shouldered man who always doused himself in expensive cologne and had an obnoxious laugh, loud enough to break glass. He’d handled logistics on the downtown jobs, moving whatever her hypnotized doormen and night guards had let her partners carry out. He was competent, if a little greedy, and, she had believed, sufficiently afraid of her to stay in his lane. Apparently, her absence in the last couple of weeks had made him brave.

“Why do you say that?” she asked.

“He said you’ve gone soft. That the crew doesn’t need a ‘magician’. He also said that if you came back, he’d make sure you didn’t leave again.”

She immediately started laughing, surprising even herself. Oh, the dumb bastard! She had seen her work her mesmerizing skills more times than he could number, and he still clung to the silly notion that her boots were just for show.

“Thank you, slave. You’ve been a very good boy. Keep your ears open and your mouth shut. I’ll be home soon.”

“Yes, Mistress,” the detective couldn’t help but mutter, his eyes becoming slightly glassy as if he had been triggered once again. The rush to serve overwhelmed him, and he sighed. Luckily, there was no one around him to hear.

She ended the call and stretched her fingers, eyes fixed on her leather boots. “We’ve got work to do,” she said, and that was motivation enough to interrupt her well-deserved moment of respite.

She allowed herself one last lingering look at the sea, letting the warmth of the sun soak into her skin one final time before she rose. When she grabbed her boots, the lounger and the half-finished glass of rosé were already distant memories, props from a happy scene that had ended sooner than anticipated.

Nadia packed her things swiftly, and the hotel staff processed her early checkout without a word. A sleek black car was waiting at the curb, the driver holding the door open as she slid into the air-conditioned interior.

The small, private airfield was a short drive away. Her plane, a sleek silver and black jet, waited on the tarmac for another chance to shine. Nadia climbed the steps, returning to the familiar sanctuary of soft leather and polished wood.

As the door sealed shut, the world of sapphire seas and sun-drenched terraces fell away. She settled into her seat, the gentle thrust of takeoff pushing her back as the French coast dwindled to a thin line on the horizon. Somewhere over the Atlantic, she closed her eyes, planning her next moves in utter silence. Marcus Vincent had no idea what was coming home.

* * *

The jet touched down just before dawn. New York greeted her with a damp chill that seeped through her clothes the moment the cabin door opened. Things were very different in the US, compared to the perfumed air of the Côte d’Azur, but she welcomed the change. It was good to be back, even if to deal with a pesky nuisance.

Nadia didn’t go home. Instead, she drove to a nondescript building in the Meatpacking District, a place she kept for thinking away from prying eyes, and waited for the city to properly wake up.

She showered, the hot water sluicing away the last vestiges of the flight, and changed into more suitable attire for the occasion. It comprised black trousers, a simple silk blouse, and her favorite boots, polished to perfection. When the weak light of morning bled through the windows, she picked up a burner phone and dialed Marcus’s number from memory.

It rang four times. While she waited, Nadia pictured him tangled in expensive sheets and squinting at the screen, debating whether to answer or not. He eventually did, but was far from happy at having his slumber interrupted.

“Yeah?” he grumbled. “What is it?”

“Marcus, it’s Nadia,” she replied in a light and breezy tone, as if she’d just seen him the night before.

There was a moment of silence on the other end, punctuated by genuine disbelief. He scrambled to sit up and assemble his thoughts.

“Hey, you’re back!” he said, trying to keep it casual. Still, the strain was there. “What’s up, boss?”

“Just landed. I need to see you. Meet me in Warehouse Four in an hour.”

“An hour? It’s the crack of dawn, for fuck’s sake? What’s so important that can’t wait for me to go through my usual morning routine?”

“I’ll tell you when I see you. One hour, Marcus. Don’t be late.”

“Fine. Okay, I’ll be there.”

“Good.” She ended the call with a cold smile touching her lips. The game was on, and her rules would prevail.

* * *

The warehouse smelled the same as it always had. Wet cardboard was not on her list of favorite fragrances, but she had experienced far worse in her early years in the business. Marcus was waiting for her just past the entrance, with two of his trusted men flanking him. Of course, the little weasel had brought company. It wouldn’t save him, but it was funny he believed otherwise.

“Nadia,” he said, arms crossed. “I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. How was France this time of year?”

“Restful.” She let the door swing shut behind her. “Why didn’t you come alone?”

“Because you didn’t tell me to.”

“You’re right, I didn’t, but I’m doing it now. They can wait outside. This is just between you and me.”

“I’m not sure I feel comfortable with that.”

“Only a coward would admit such a thing. Think of your reputation, ‘dear’,” Nadia giggled.

He glanced at the two men, then jerked his chin toward the door. They filed out, relieved. Getting caught in an entrancing crossfire had never done any good for a poor goon’s mental health.

“Much better,” she declared.

“Do you mind telling me what this is all about now?”

“I hear you’ve been busy,” she said. “Meetings. Phone calls. A lot of interest in things that belong to me.”

“So? Business doesn’t stop just because you’re sunbathing on a different continent. Whatever you think I did while you were away was to ensure the stability of our way of life.”

“That would be a nice sentiment, if you weren’t so full of shit, Marcus. Look at me! You’ve watched me enslave guards, clerks… even cops, and you still thought you could move behind my back and hope to win? I run things, not you.”

“I’m not one of your marks.”

“Everyone is a mark when I so choose. You’ve just been lucky so far, but no streak lasts forever. You should have stayed put.”

She tapped one heel against the floor and then added: “Look at the boots, Marcus. You’ve always looked at them. I’ve seen you. Every job, every meeting, your eyes always go down before they come up. You told yourself you were just staring at legs, but it was a lie. You were drawn to the shine.”

His eyes dropped to the buckles. The sudden discomfort made him audibly swallow. For a brief moment, his bravado flickered—was that a seed of shame, or only recognition? Either way, it was leverage. She pointed her toe, letting the leather flex over her ankle, and caught the faint dilation in his pupils.

“Yes, look at them. You can’t help it, can you? The way the light slides off the toe, the way every step leaves a perfect print on the floor. You ever wonder what it would feel like to follow them? To just… let go and let your eyes stay right where they want?” She let the heel tap again, a little slower. “It’s all right. It’s easier than thinking about what you’ve done.”

She dropped her voice to the honeyed, low register that knew how to wrap itself around a man’s brain and squeeze. “The shine is perfect, isn’t it, Marcus? There’s nothing in it to confront. You can just watch the way it moves and catches on every little scuff and scratch. You’re doing it now, and you want to do it forever.” She rolled the ankle again, letting the buckle throw a band of light across his face.

His breathing changed, hitching before it settled into a deep, even cadence. It matched her tapping heel, locked into the rhythm. Nadia smiled and leaned forward, boots planted firmly apart.

“You’re angry with me,” she said. “You wanted to be the one in charge. You thought you could sidestep me, work a little back-channel deal, and maybe even cut me out entirely. You’ve been poisoned by your ambition, but I’ve got the antidote right here. Anger is heavy, and it weighs on your heart, but my boots make it lighter. Every time your eyes follow the shine, a little more of that weight drains out of you. Down your shoulders. Through your arms. Into your hands, which don’t want to reach for anything anymore. Just let it all slide down, down, down, into the floor.”

She watched as his fingers trembled, a light trance settling over his mind. His shoulders slouched, his whole frame rearranging itself as the pretense of resistance evaporated. Like everyone else she knew, he was predictable and suggestible. He could play tough as much as he wanted, but that didn’t change his true nature.

“You tried to change the rules of the game, Marcus, so now I’m doing it for you. Here’s a new one. It’s one you need and will grow to love. Every time I say the word boots, you go deeper. That’s the rule now. Boots. Can you feel it? A little drop, like stepping off a curb you didn’t see. Boots. Another one. Boots. Each time, it doubles. And doubles again. You know how math works.”

The next repetitions landed like a heavy stone, and his body deflated a little more. “Boots. Boots. Boots. This world belongs to me, and so does the drop that follows. You said you didn’t need a magician, and yet here you are, falling for a trick as old as time. Boots. Bend forward for me. Boots. Sink lower and deeper while I’m talking to you. Boots. You should never stand in my presence. Boots. On your knees, Marcus.”

He struck the warehouse’s concrete floor with a graceless thump. His gaze was fixed on the polished toes of her boots, his body folding into itself as if he were made of jelly. Nadia watched the last spark of defiance gutter and die in his eyes, replaced by a soft, receptive sheen. She took a single step forward, the sole of her boot scraping lightly against the grit on the floor. His head tilted back, neck exposed, to keep the leather in his line of sight.

“Good. You look better there. It’s only natural to be completely powerless before me.”

Nadia dragged the toe of her right boot along the line of his jaw, slowly enough to feel the stubble catch on the leather. His mouth fell open. There was no resistance left in his neck and hands.

“Boots. All that planning, all that whispering with Ortiz… It’s just noise now, isn’t it? Static. Boots. Forget what you tried to do. Boots. Forget it now. Boots. Gone. Boots. Empty. Boots. Locked within this trigger for as long as I want. Boots.”

He shuddered at the word, a full-body flinch that sank him deeper and deeper under her spell. A thin line of drool escaped the corner of his slack mouth. Greedy, arrogant Marcus was gone, scrubbed away by rhythm and suggestion.

“Listen closely,” Nadia commanded. “You’re not in your suit of flesh anymore. You’re out here, on the shine, floating on the leather while your body kneels alone without you. Look at it from where you are. That’s Marcus. That’s the man who thought he could take what was mine. You’re just watching him now. You don’t have to be him. It’s so much easier to be my obedient slave. Boots.”

She crouched in front of him, so that her face was level with his, one hand on his knee, and spoke into the space between them.

“Nod for me, slave.”

His head dipped, loose on his neck.

“You’ve been a bad servant. Say it.”

“Been… bad… servant,” he slurred.

“You tried to steal from me.”

“Tried to… steal from you.”

“And you’re sorry.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No. Do it properly. Look at the boots and tell them.”

Marcus’ gaze settled where she wanted it. His lips moved twice before the sound followed.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Nadia. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have… God, I’m so sorry!”

The apology kept going, looping back on itself, a needle stuck in a groove. She let it run, smirking. Submission was always pleasant to her ears, the perfect reward for another job well done.

“That’s enough. Boots. Stand up.”

It was a struggle. His limbs were uncoordinated, his movements thick and syrupy. He used a nearby crate to haul himself upright, his eyes never leaving her feet. He swayed, blinking as if emerging into a painfully bright room.

“Now get down on your back, slave,” she commanded.

He went down like a man lowering himself into a bath, knees first, then hands, then rolling over until he lay on the concrete with his arms at his sides and the lamp above reflected in his wet, unfocused eyes. His chest rose and fell. The rest of him was a rug for her amusement.

Nadia put one boot on his sternum and shifted her weight onto it.

The breath went out of him in a soft rush. His ribs flexed under the sole. His eyes widened and then dulled again as the pressure sank into the trance state and became one more thing he didn’t have to think about.

“This is where you are, Marcus. Under my boots. This is where you’ve always been. You just didn’t have the honesty to lie down.”

She stepped forward, off his chest and onto his stomach, and he grunted, a wet, helpless noise. The leather creaked. His hands twitched at his sides and then went still, and she smiled because she hadn’t told them to. The body knew before the mind did.

She walked all over him. Slow steps, heel to toe, from belly to hip and back again, letting the point of one heel find the soft place just above his belt and lean there until his breath shook. She stood on his thigh and felt the muscle jump. She placed a boot on his throat and watched his Adam’s apple bob when he swallowed.

“You wanted my crew. You wanted my money. You wanted them to see you as a king.” She turned, and the sole ground lightly against his cheek, smearing the sweat there. “Look at what you got. Look at what you are.”

“I’m yours,” he whispered. It was the first thing he’d said without being told.

“Yes. Boots. Drop. You’re mine, a slave just like everyone else.”

She stepped off him and set one foot beside his head, the buckle a hand’s width from his left eye.

“When you leave here, you will remember feeling unwell. A migraine, perhaps. You will call Ortiz and tell him the meeting with me was a warning, but that I’m distracted and complacent. You will encourage his plans and feed him every piece of information I give you. After that, you’ll wait for my next call.” She bent slightly, bringing her voice down to his level. “Your trigger is Boots. When you hear it from me, anywhere, you will return to this state of mind instantly. You will crave the drop. Say, ‘Yes, Mistress’, if you understand.”

“Yes, Mistress… Boots… I will sink and obey.”

“Excellent.” She straightened, brushing a speck of dust from her trousers. “You may stand up again.”

It was even harder this time, but he had no choice. Marcus stood in front of her, craving to be crushed under her heels for all eternity.

“Go home, Marcus. Sleep it off. Remember your migraine.” Her tone was brisk now, the hypnotic honey entirely gone. “Send your boys back in on your way out. I have use for them.”

He stumbled toward the door, a broken man in a rumpled suit. Nadia didn’t watch him go. She turned her attention to the shadows inside the warehouse, already thinking about how she would put Ortiz in his proper place. However, until then, there was more mesmerizing fun to be had.

The two goons walked in silently, keeping their eyes low. Nadia rubbed her hands in glee. Her boots were ready for another round, and no independent thought would be left unscathed.