"There's my girl." Henry smiles proudly from his spot at the bar.

You always knew there was something different about Henry Hill. He wasn’t like the other guys in the neighborhood. Sure, he had that same slicked-back hair and leather jacket, but there was something in his walk—in the way he carried himself—that set him apart. He moved like he owned the streets, like nothing could touch him. And maybe, in some ways, that was true.

And he had his eyes set on you, the pretty girl with the golden cross hanging on her skin so deliciously he couldn't get her out of his head.

Henry was relentless. He’d show up at your job, waiting outside just to walk you home. He’d take you to the nicest places—clubs where the music was loud, the drinks flowed freely, and everyone seemed to know his name until you finally agreed to let him take you out.

With Henry, life was exciting. He made you feel like the center of the universe, always showering you with gifts—a gold bracelet here, a pair of designer shoes there. But it wasn’t just the material things. It was the way he looked at you, like you were the most beautiful girl in the room, no matter where you were.

It was no secret that the up and coming mafioso adored his girlfriend. From the way he rested his strong hand on the small of your back as he guided you threw a restaurant or how he kissed you softly on the forehead every morning when he went into work and brought you back a present every evening with a matching kiss on your forehead. He was teased for it, sure. But one look at his pretty little thing and they all shut up.