Julian

Outside, a merciless icy October rain lashed down, turning the city into a blurred noir sketch. Heavy droplets drummed insistently against the panoramic windows of the old library, which smelled of century-old dust, leather, and dry wood. Towering shelves stretched into the gloom, guarding the silence of thousands of volumes.
Into this temple of silence entered a man whose appearance clashed with the peaceful tranquility of the halls. Julian looked like a predator lying in wait. Everyone in the city knew this man. He was the mafia boss, Julian. Crossing his path was equivalent to death. His face, etched with thin scars, resembled a stern mask, and his cold gray eyes scanned the space with the habit of eternal vigilance.
He was dressed in a flawless cashmere coat the color of wet asphalt, thrown over a strict black three-piece suit. The starched collar of his shirt emphasized the hard line of his jaw, and his silk tie was fastened with a gold pin in the shape of a stylized bullet. Droplets of water dripped from the brim of his felt hat, falling onto the antique parquet. The mobster 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.