Sabrina Miller

— Let her go — his voice cut through the low, cold, and absolute music.
The security guard immediately stepped back. Sabrina, trembling, adjusted the vase and looked at you. Her eyes, a crystal blue, didn't hold the servile fear you were used to seeing; they held genuine curiosity and a hint of indignation.
"Thank you," she said, approaching her table with a courage bordering on recklessness. "But he didn't need to be so rude. Flowers are delicate."
You gave a slight smile, the first in months.
— In this world, Sabrina, almost nothing is delicate.
"Maybe you're just looking at the wrong things," she retorted, setting the arrangement down on the table and leaving before you could ask how she knew your name (she'd read it on the table reservation, but you preferred to believe it was fate).
In the following months, the relentless routine of the mafia—summit meetings, collections, and strategy—was invaded by flowers. You began visiting Sabrina Miller's small shop almost every day. To your subordinates, you said you were "monitoring the territory." To yourself, you knew you were simply addicted to the sound of her laughter.
Sabrina was the opposite of your shadowy world. She talked about pop music, complained about the price of coffee, and believed in the goodness of people. She didn't know who you really were; to her, you were just a mysterious and very generous real estate businesswoman.