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Chapter Two

Rafaele

I t’s not particularly rare for my father to call me to his residence. What’s rarer is him requesting Leo’s presence at the same time, and what can be classified as a miracle is Leo actually showing up.

“Ah, brother dearest—the family portrait is complete,” Leo says, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

I take a deep breath, ignoring his jab. “Why are you here?”

“Father called.”

“And since when do you listen?” I ask, taking a seat beside him.

“Since he threatened to take away my condo and Aston if I didn’t show my face.”

“Ah,” I say, understanding immediately. Money is the only thing my brother understands but on a very basic level. With all the money he’s made with the famiglia, he could buy his condo ten times over, but he’s too busy spending it on girls, alcohol, and bets. I, on the other hand, despite being the next capo, bought myself a gothic manor just outside of town. At least I can’t be threatened.

I laugh internally, wondering who would even dare to threaten me. They’d have to have a death wish.

The tension between us is palpable, as it always has been. I’m not sure why. Is it the age difference? Leo is seven years younger than me, and it’s true we never really bonded. Or is it because we’re diametrically different, both in looks and personality? We’ve never seen eye to eye, and I doubt we ever will.

“Did you rat on me? Is that why I’ve been summoned too?” Leo snaps, his suspicion evident.

“Believe what you wish, Leo—you always do.” I should have told on him. Not doing so feels like a small betrayal, and Paolo is right—maybe it’s exactly what my brother needs. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

The door opens, revealing the judge, and I frown. The presence of the judge signals that significant decisions are about to be made, and suddenly, this visit unsettles me. Is my father stepping down? I glance at my brother, who’s frowning as well. If my father asks me to take over, will he expect me to make Leo my second? There’s no way I’ll do that. Paolo is the right choice.

The judge bows his head in a respectful salute and keeps the door open as he leaves.

“You can come in,” my father's booming voice calls from the office.

As soon as we walk in, Leo all but plops himself onto a chair, slouching in it. It's something he wouldn’t normally do, but he’s made annoying our father an Olympic sport.

“You called,” he says, slouching even more.

I roll my eyes as my father’s lips press into a thin line. “Leonardo, I see you haven’t changed.”

“Thank you,” Leo replies with a smirk.

“What did you need us for?” I interject, standing by the door, cutting off whatever argument is brewing.

My father sighs, breaking the staring contest with Leo to look at me. “Yes. I’m not getting any younger, and the legacy rests with you… two.”

My brother snorts, but my father ignores him.

“The thing is, I owe Maurizio Falcone a favor from the past, and his daughter is due for marriage. She will marry one of you.”

Leo snorts again. “Well, good luck, Rafaele—you’re obviously the one needing to bite the bullet. You’re the heir. I’m merely the spare.”

“Barely,” my father mutters under his breath. “And no, neither of you have a say in this. She’s the one who gets to pick which one of you she wants to marry.”

Okay, I was not expecting that.

“No!” My brother jumps from his seat, his hands balled into fists. “I’m not getting married. Absolutely not.”

My father shrugs. “She may not choose you.”

“Come on!” Leo points at his chest. “Have you looked at me ? Better yet,” he points to me, “have you looked at him ?”

I hold back a sigh, feeling the inevitable comparison coming. Leo has always believed his looks were his greatest asset, and he’s not entirely wrong.

My brother, with his easy smile and sun-kissed golden hair, has always had the kind of face that turns heads. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and muscular, like he stepped out of a catalog—rugged yet boyish, with a charm that women find hard to resist. His piercing blue eyes are bright, always alight with some mischief, and his square jaw and chiseled features could have easily made him a poster boy for some romantic Hollywood blockbuster.

Then there’s me. I’ve always been the brooding one, with black, unruly hair and a face that’s all sharp angles and intensity. My deep-set eyes are dark and often shadowed by a seriousness that seems to unsettle people, and my nose, slightly crooked from a fight years ago, adds to the roughness of my appearance. My build is tall and lean, but not in the same way as Leo’s. Where he’s all easygoing athleticism, I’m more of a solid, intimidating presence with a physique honed by years of discipline and training rather than casual workouts. Some might say I have a face that speaks of danger, a face that doesn’t invite easy conversation or casual flirtation.

But I’m not interested in charming anyone. My looks have never been my focus, and I’ve never needed to rely on them. I’ve always known that my strength lies elsewhere—in my mind, in my resolve, in my ability to get things done.

I meet Leo’s gaze evenly. “Thank you, brother.”

“No offense, of course,” he adds, but he doesn’t care. That much is clear.

My father's expression darkens, his patience wearing thin. “Sit down, Leonardo,” he snaps, his voice sharp enough to cut through the tension in the room. “Remember your place. If she chooses you, you will marry her, and that’s the end of it.”

Leo opens his mouth to protest, but my father raises a hand to silence him. “This isn’t about love; it’s about duty. You think you’re the first man to marry for the famiglia? You’ll do as you’re told.”

Leo slumps back into his chair, glaring at me as if this entire situation is my fault. But our father isn’t finished.

“Nothing will stop you from sampling the girls from the club,” he continues, his tone icy and matter-of-fact. “You’ll still have your fun. You’ll just have a wife at home.” He narrows his gaze. “She’s nice and meek—you could do worse.”

Nice and meek… What he truly means is naive.

“How old is she?” I can’t help but ask. Most women in the mafia marry barely out of adolescence, and even if I’m not particularly interested in marriage, I’ve always found this fact quite bothersome.

“Twenty-two, I think. Older than most.”

Still way too young, I think, realizing she’s twelve years younger than I am. The thought doesn’t sit well with me, but this world rarely accommodates personal discomforts.

Not that she’d pick you, the voice in my head taunts. I glance down at Leo, who’s only five years older than her, but mentally, he’s probably five years behind. It’s a strange and unsettling situation, this notion of being chosen like a prize at some twisted fair. I’ve seen enough marriages in this world to know that most aren’t built on mutual respect or affection.

“Older than most,” my father repeats, his tone dismissive as if her age is just another trivial detail in a long list of things that don’t really matter. “But she’s still young enough to be molded, to learn her place.”

I stifle a sigh, knowing this conversation is heading into territory I’ve long since grown weary of. I’ve seen too many women suffocated by the roles forced upon them. The thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

But in this world, my opinions are often irrelevant. Duty, legacy, and power are what matter, and everything else falls by the wayside.

Not that she’d pick you , the voice in my head insists again, and this time, I can’t argue with it. Leo might not want this marriage, but if she chooses him, he’ll have no choice. And if she chooses me… well, that’s something I’m not sure I’m ready to think about just yet.

“I know you, Leonardo,” our father says, his tone darkening. “I know how charming you can be, and if you do anything to make her not pick you, I swear I’m taking your condo and car back, and you’ll move back here.”

Leo opens his mouth to whine, as I expected.

“But if you remain your charming self and she picks you? You know the club you like so much? It’ll be yours.”

I have a hard time hiding my surprise—giving my brother the strip club is a recipe for disaster.

“Will you? Really?” Leo’s eyes light up, a glimmer of interest finally breaking through his defiance.

“On my honor,” Father affirms.

“What’s her name?” Leo asks, suddenly curious. “I know most of the girls in the famiglia.”

“I know you do,” he mutters. “I’ve had to cover up so many scandals because you can’t keep that fucking dick in your pants.”

I don’t need to see my brother to know he’s rolling his eyes, the usual arrogance radiating off him.

“Nora, I think,” our father replies, his tone almost uninterested.

Leo thinks for a second and then shrugs. “Nope, nothing. She must be rather plain or really ugly because, normally, I don’t discriminate. A skirt is a skirt.”

I can’t help but snort at that. “That’s the most polite way I’ve ever heard you put it.”

Leo turns his head to the side and grins. “I’m maturing; what do you want? I think referring to my future wife as a walking pussy would be in bad taste.”

The crudeness of his words doesn’t surprise me, but it still grates on my nerves. Leo has always been reckless with his language and his actions, but this is a new low, even for him. It’s one thing to live carelessly, but to reduce a potential wife—someone who might be part of our family—to such a demeaning term shows just how little he respects the gravity of the situation.

“Show some respect, Leo,” I snap, unable to keep the edge out of my voice. “This isn’t a game.”

He raises an eyebrow at me, unfazed. “Relax, Rafaele. I’m just being honest. You know as well as I do that this marriage is about convenience, not love. So why pretend it’s something it’s not?”

“I’m not pretending,” I say, my voice cold. “But you could at least appear to be decent for once in your life.”

Leo just smirks, leaning back in his chair with a nonchalance that infuriates me. “Don’t worry, brother. I’ll charm her socks off if it makes you happy. But let’s not kid ourselves. If she’s as plain as she sounds, this isn’t going to be some fairy-tale romance.”

“Fairy tales aren’t real,” I reply quietly, more to myself than to him. “But that doesn’t mean you have to make this a nightmare.”

Leo shrugs, clearly uninterested in my perspective. To him, this is just another arrangement, another obligation to fulfill before he can get back to his hedonistic lifestyle.

“Enough with all of this. Be here tonight at eight.”

Leo stands up. “You’re giving me the club.”

My father nods.

“You have yourself a deal, old man.” He turns and winks at me. “See you tonight. I can’t wait to see my fiancée.”

“Wait, Rafaele, we need to talk,” my father interjects just as I turn to follow Leo out of the office. “Close the door and take a seat.”

I glance at my brother, who sneers as I close the door behind him. I used to feel bad for Leo, for how our father often ostracized him. But not anymore. I know how little he cares about the family and his duties—all that matters to Leo is enjoying life on his own terms. Despite everything and Paolo’s constant reminders, I keep enabling him because, in the end, it’s easier that way.

I take a deep breath and turn toward my father, who simply jerks his head at the seat across from him as he lights up his cigar.

I sit and wait as he takes a long puff, the silence thick with unspoken words.

“So,” he starts, staring at me with that familiar, unreadable expression.

“So?” I repeat, already feeling a flicker of irritation. This is my father’s method of conducting an interrogation—silent, drawn-out stares designed to make you squirm. It might have been effective when I was fifteen, but now, it’s just downright annoying.

“You didn’t tell me your brother didn’t help at the warehouse,” he finally says.

“You didn’t ask,” I reply, waving my hand dismissively. “Leo is Leo. It would have taken longer and been more painful to have him in my way. I accomplished what I wanted. What’s the point?”

He shakes his head, his expression hardening. “It’s his duty.”

I’m not in the mood for this never-ending argument again. “Are you really going to give him Lace?”

My father shrugs, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “The club isn’t a critical asset, but it’s a test for Leo—a chance to prove he can handle responsibility. And if he fails, well, it’s better that he fails here, under our watch, than elsewhere.”

He nudges the cigar box toward me—a gesture that’s more significant than it seems. Sharing a cigar with my father is his way of showing respect, a rare acknowledgment that I’m not just his son but also his equal.

I take a cigar from the box, rolling it between my fingers. “What about this marriage? How did that even happen?”

He takes another long puff, contemplating his words before answering. “Maurizio Falcone saved me a long time ago, during the old days when things were more… unstable. I was in a tight spot, and he took the proverbial bullet for me. I swore then that I’d repay him, no matter what.”

“And now, his daughter needs a husband,” I say, understanding dawning on me.

He nods. “She’s not just any daughter. She’s his only child, his pride and joy. He wants to ensure she’s taken care of and that she marries into a strong family. That’s where you and Leo come in.”

I take a moment to absorb this. Maurizio Falcone is not that big of a name around here. If this is how my father plans to repay his debt, then it must have been big because it’s a move with far-reaching consequences.

“She’s a good girl, from what I’ve heard. She’s smart, well-educated, and knows how to keep her head down. We could do worse as far as daughters-in-law are concerned. Knowing your brother, it’s only a matter of time before we’re dealing with some hooker he knocks up, and he’ll end up marrying her. The Falcone girl is the best we could hope for.”

I light the cigar, taking a slow draw as I consider the implications. “You know she’s going to pick Leo, right?”

My father grins. “Of course I do. That’s why I agreed. You are the real Lucchese, Rafaele, and she’s the daughter of a senior soldato. It’s not that impressive. Who cares about her children with Leo? We’ll find you someone good. A real Italian girl from one of the original famiglia in Sicily.”

I nod slowly despite the wave of disgust that crawls over my skin at the thought. The idea of being paired off like livestock, of having my life planned out to such a degree, fills me with a quiet revulsion I’ve learned to keep buried.

“We all know how this is going to end. Do I really need to join them? I have to finish what I started with Sofia’s husband.”

“Yes, you have to,” my father insists, his tone leaving no room for argument. “One night won’t change anything, and your cousin is back on her leash. You’ll be there, and you’ll do your duty.”

I take another draw from the cigar, letting the smoke curl around me as I weigh my options. It’s clear my father has already made his decisions, and he expects me to fall in line. And I will, as I always do because that’s the role I’ve been groomed to play—the heir, the dutiful son, the future capo who will one day carry the weight of the famiglia on his shoulders.

But as I sit here, the taste of the cigar bitter on my tongue, I can’t shake the feeling that this is the beginning of something that will spiral out of control, something I won’t be able to contain once it’s set in motion.

“Fine,” I finally say, the word carrying the weight of reluctant acceptance. “I’ll be there.”

My father nods, satisfied. “Good. We’ll see this through together, as we always have.”

But even as he says the words, I can’t help but wonder just how much longer this charade can last before the cracks in our carefully constructed world start to show.

This whole pretense of dinner is absolutely ridiculous, and part of me wishes I could be on my way to the small Russian bar on First Street with Paolo and the men instead of heading to this pompous—whatever you’d call it—dinner, where my brother will undoubtedly preen like a peacock. Yet, I can’t deny a certain curiosity about this girl.

I don’t bother dressing to impress and settle for a classic black suit—perfectly embodying the reputation of The Reaper. When I arrive at the house, I find Leo already there, a glass of brandy in hand, dressed to the nines. Every detail of his outfit has been meticulously chosen to showcase his looks in the best light possible.

“You’re here early,” I remark as I join him in the library.

He finishes his glass in one go. “Want a drink?” he asks, already reaching for the decanter.

I shake my head. I don’t drink much, especially not in public—the idea of not being fully in control has never appealed to me. “I’ll pass.”

“Suit yourself.” He pours another glass and takes a sip. “Don’t mind me having a second one. I’m just bracing myself in case she’s a complete hag.”

“Leo, you need to?—”

“The guests are here. Please follow me to the door,” our father’s voice calls from the corridor, cutting me off. Leo downs his second glass quickly and follows me to the main entrance.

We stand in the hall—my father, Leo, and me—as the butler opens the door to reveal Maurizio Falcone, notably without his pill-popping wife. And then she steps in, and for a moment, the air in the room feels different.

At first, I notice the conservative navy-blue dress she’s chosen, designed to blend in rather than stand out. The high neckline and tailored bodice highlight her curves in a way that is tasteful, almost demure. The skirt falls just below her knees, swaying gently with each step, while the sheer three-quarter sleeves add a touch of understated elegance.

But then, she looks up and meets my gaze, holding it. I’m surprised—impressed, even. Most people look away when they meet my eyes; they are so dark you can’t see the iris, making them look like two black holes. My gaze has been known to unsettle even the most hardened men, but she holds it—steady, unafraid. It’s disconcerting, and for a brief second, I wonder if she’s aware of the effect it has. It’s as if she’s challenging me, though I doubt she’s even aware of it.

As I take in the rest of her features, I’m struck by her pale blonde hair cascading in soft waves that frame her fair face. Blonde hair is rare among the women in our world, and it makes her stand out in a way that’s both subtle and captivating. Her bright blue eyes, vivid against her porcelain skin, catch the light, and in that moment, I see something deeper—something she seems to be trying to conceal.

She isn’t remarkable, but she isn’t plain either. She’s a pretty girl who’s trying to make herself blend in, but I can see it in her eyes—the life, the passion she’s trying so hard to suppress. She should have been treated like a treasure, her blonde hair and blue eyes alone enough to make her stand out in any crowd, yet it’s clear she’s been all but discarded, trying to make herself invisible. But to me, she’s fascinating—a hidden gem that doesn’t even realize how brightly it could shine.

Before anyone can utter a word, my brother steps forward and grabs her hands. “Bella ragazza! You are beautiful!” He lays it on thick, and the way she smiles tells me she knows it too.

I’d bet my position in the famiglia that he called her bella ragazza because he forgot her name. Leo’s charm has never impressed me—nor has anyone else’s. Physical beauty and flirtation are games that others play, ones I’ve never cared to join. My focus has always been elsewhere—on matters that actually matter. She’ll see through him soon enough.

I nod toward her. “Ms. Falcone, nice to meet you.” My voice is cold and emotionless, not bothering to hide my disinterest. I’m not here to play a part in a marriage I neither want nor can win.

“Please, call me Nora,” she responds with a smile, once again holding my gaze. How peculiar is this girl?

“Please, let’s go eat,” my father urges, and Leo, ever the charmer, rests his hand on the small of her back, directing her to the dining room.

I roll my eyes as I walk a few steps behind them, glancing at my phone, waiting for Paolo to confirm whether he’s collected the Russian we need without causing too much damage.

Leo, playing the perfect gentleman, pulls out her chair, and once she’s seated, he takes the spot beside her. He launches into a conversation, telling her about all the things he supposedly loves—which I’d say is 97 percent lies, considering he conveniently leaves out sex, alcohol, and parties, the very things that constitute his entire existence.

I can’t help but observe this spectacle with a mix of irritation and detachment. Leo’s act is almost comical, a transparent display of everything I’ve come to expect from him. And yet, Nora doesn’t seem entirely fooled. There’s something in her eyes, something that suggests she’s not as easily swayed by superficial charm as most. But whether she’ll see through Leo’s facade in time is another matter entirely.

As for me, I’m content to sit back and let the evening play out—my mind half-focused on the more pressing matters waiting for me outside this dining room. My phone finally vibrates, and I pull it from my pocket, entirely unconcerned if I come across as rude. No one seems to care that I haven’t shared a word this evening. My father and Maurizio Falcone are too absorbed in their conversation about the famiglia, and my brother is busy talking Nora’s ear off about how perfect, funny, and smart he is. She just nods absentmindedly, her mind clearly elsewhere, until my brother makes a grave mistake—and suddenly, the conversation turns interesting as I watch him heading straight for a train wreck.

Leo casually rests his arm on the back of her chair. “I’m quite into intellectual hobbies, to be honest. I love to read. I’ve been getting into some… literary classics lately.”

Sure you do—illiterate swine. The only “book” I’ve ever seen him pick up was the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit edition.

But her eyes light up, clearly interested now, and I can’t help but grin, momentarily forgetting about my phone and Paolo. This is far more entertaining.

“Really? I love to read.” She leans forward slightly, curiosity piqued. “What do you like to read?”

Oh, this is getting better by the second.

Leo hesitates for the briefest of moments, a slight falter in his confident demeanor. “You know… the usual… the more obscure stuff. I’m a big fan of… Italian writers.”

She raises an eyebrow, her interest deepening. “Really? Italian literature is fascinating. I actually have a degree in English and European literature.” She smiles, excitement bubbling in her voice. “What Italian author do you like the most?”

Leo clears his throat, his eyes glancing toward me, a silent plea for help. “Well, you know, uh… the one who talks about power… and ruling.”

Her smile widens. “Machiavelli, perhaps?”

“Yes, exactly!” His voice carries a false note of triumph. “Machiavelli’s—uh—insights on power are, you know, really something.”

I glance at my phone, wishing I could record this moment.

“It is better to be feared than loved if you cannot be both,” she says softly, her gaze holding a mix of curiosity and challenge. “What do you think?” She recites the quote with a smile, and now I understand why the name Nora suits her so well. When she smiles like that, she’s truly a light.

A sudden silence falls, stretching long enough for her to realize Leo isn’t going to continue. Even our fathers are looking at them now, my father’s expression shifting from puzzlement to irritation.

Leo looks uncertain, but before the awkwardness can settle, I decide to speak for the first time, my voice calm and controlled.

“‘The ends justify the means.’” I continue the famous line from The Prince , my eyes meeting hers as I finish the quote smoothly, as if the words have been ready on my tongue.

She turns her smile toward me, and something strange stirs in my stomach—something like nausea. It’s uncomfortable, and yet I don’t want it to stop.

“So,” she says, her voice softer now, “you know The Prince ?”

I look at her for a long moment before answering, a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of my lips. “Better than most,” I add, finishing with another Machiavellian quote: “He who wishes to be obeyed must know how to command.”

Her eyes linger on mine, and for a moment, the world outside this room fades into the background. There’s a connection here, something neither of us expected. And as I watch the play of emotions on her face, I realize that this dinner has just become far more intriguing than I ever anticipated.

My father clears his throat, breaking the tension. “Well, who doesn’t like Machiavelli? Time for dessert.” He gestures to the butler, who promptly begins serving the cake and coffee.

As the plates are placed in front of us, my father wastes no time. “Nora, I’m so glad to add such a gem to our family crown. Now tell us, which of my sons are you choosing to be your husband?”

Her father practically beams with excitement, his gaze darting between Leo and her. Nora nods, but I notice a subtle change in her complexion—she’s paler now, as all eyes, including mine, are fixed on her.

“Come on, sweetheart, you can say it,” her father encourages, his voice filled with anticipation.

I can’t help but sigh, my gaze drifting back to my phone on the table. I’m itching to leave, knowing these extra seconds of dramatic tension are a waste of time and, frankly?—

“Rafaele.”

My head jerks up at the sound of my name, but she’s looking down at her cake. Did I imagine this?

I quickly glance around the table. My brother looks shocked, my father’s expression shifts from anticipation to annoyance, and her father—well, he looks justifiably horrified.

“Excuse me?” My voice comes out harsher than I intended.

Leo, still processing what he just heard, points at himself. “My name is Leo,” he says as if she somehow missed that crucial detail.

She looks up, her expression resolute. “I know.”

Leo’s finger swings toward me, his confusion deepening. “ This is Rafaele.”

She nods again, more firmly this time. “Yes, I know.”

The room falls into a stunned silence. For the first time tonight, it feels like the ground beneath us has shifted. My father’s displeasure is palpable, and Leo, for once, is speechless. I study Nora’s face, searching for any sign of hesitation, but all I find is quiet determination.

“Why?” My father’s voice is low, but the question hangs heavily in the air, demanding an answer.

The question should offend me, but it doesn’t—because it’s the same question I want to ask.

“Does it matter?” Nora’s voice is steady, her gaze unwavering.

My father is taken aback, and if it weren’t for my own shock, I might have laughed. It’s not often that someone talks back to the capo.

“No, I suppose it doesn’t,” he concedes, though I can see the surprise lingering in his eyes. “It’s just that Rafaele is not the obvious choice.”

And it’s the one you didn’t want her to make.

“Nora, sweetheart,” her father interjects, his voice filled with concern. “Are you sure you’ve thought this through? I’m sure Capo Lucchese wouldn’t mind giving you a few more days to decide.”

My father is suddenly eager to agree. “Yes, of course, it’s a big decision.”

But Nora shakes her head. “No, it’s okay. I won’t change my mind. Rafaele it is.”

Why does my chest feel warm suddenly? I reach up and rub at it, hoping the sensation will fade.

“But why?” Leo asks, or rather whines, and the sound is almost pathetic.

She looks at us all, her expression resolute. “I’m sorry, Capo. I mean no disrespect, but I was told this was my decision, and it seems that?—”

“It is your decision,” I interrupt, the words leaving my mouth before I can stop them. I should let them convince her to marry Leo. I should let it slide, excuse myself, and go deal with whatever Russian Paolo managed to pick up. Pain and fear are the two arts I’m a master in; the rest is just inconsequential. And yet, here I am, supporting her choice to make me her husband—to make me her own boogeyman.

“I will marry you, Nora Falcone, if that is what you want.” I’ve spent my life controlling every aspect of my existence. I’ve made men bow to my will, instilled fear in the hearts of those who dare challenge me. But this… This is different. I’m being forced into a role I didn’t choose, and yet, the choice is hers. It’s a strange kind of powerlessness I’m not used to, and the part of me that thrives on control resents it.

“This is my choice,” she replies, and I don’t miss the fact that she doesn’t say she wants it. She’s being forced into this, just as we all are.

The room is silent, the weight of her decision settling over us like a shroud. My father’s face is a mask of barely contained irritation, Leo looks like he’s been slapped, and her father… Her father seems to be struggling between anger and acceptance.

But Nora… She looks calm, as if this moment was inevitable. And perhaps, in a way, it was.

The warmth in my chest doesn’t fade, and I realize that this, too, is inevitable. I am a part of this now, tied to her choice, and it’s a path neither of us can turn back from.

Well, I guess I’m getting married… Congratulations to me, and thoughts and prayers for her.