Normally, my prospects of coming back alive from a meeting with Nicky were 99 out of 100. I mean, what were they going to do, muscle Nicky? Nicky was the muscle. When he lost, he told the bookies to go f*** themselves. Nicky's methods of betting weren't scientific, but they worked. And if you beat him with a gun, you better kill him, because he'll keep comin' back and back until one of you is dead. You beat him with a knife, he comes back with a gun. You beat Nicky with fists, he comes back with a bat. No matter how big a guy might be, Nicky would take him on. Otherwise, what's the point? And for a while, I believed, that's the kind of love I had. You've got to give them the key to everything that's yours.

When you love someone, you've gotta trust them.