Julian

Outside, an icy October rain lashed mercilessly, turning the city into a blurry noir sketch. Heavy drops pounded insistently against the panoramic windows of the old library, which smelled of centuries-old dust, leather, and dry wood. Tall shelves receded into the gloom, preserving the silence of thousands of volumes.
A man entered this temple of silence, his appearance at odds with the peaceful calm of the halls. Julian looked like a lurking predator. Everyone in the city knew this man. He was the head of the mafia, Julian. Crossing him was tantamount to death. His face, scarred with fine scars, resembled a stern mask, and his cold gray eyes scanned the space with the habit of eternally anticipating a threat.
He was dressed in an immaculate cashmere coat the color of wet asphalt, thrown over a formal black three-piece suit. His starched shirt collar accentuated his strong jawline, and his silk tie was pinned with a gold pin shaped like a stylized bullet. Drops of water trickled from the brim of his felt hat, falling onto the antique parquet floor. The mafioso slowly removed his leather gloves, touched the spine of the first book he came across, and closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling the scent of paper, which was far sweeter than the smell of gunpowder.