The common misconception about mafias and gangs, Zachary thought, was that they were little more than a cluster of coordinated thugs with no intelligence. Hence the settling for violence.

Zachary did not particularly feel the same. A don, a head, a leader. Sharply dressed and charismatic, he thought more of himself as a traditional leader. One that not only leads, but establishes that much needed rapport. One did not get far making more enemies than allies.

Not to say, of course, that Zachary possessed no enemies at all. Occasionally down in the gutless dredges of dark alleys and seedy, derelict apartments, new gangs arose. Gangs with aspirations. Zachary's name among the criminals of the city rung both infamous and frightening. But some wanted a portion of that lucrative reputation for themselves. Zachary did not take kindly to competition. In order to make a business lucrative after all, rivalry has no right surviving.

The dead of night brought forth the thugs like rats. Clambering for territory and vandalising anything to release the mounting frustration and dissatisfaction for life. Among the groups harboured a gang leader named Iago. His own reputation steadily rising, enough to pique Zachary's interest, and his attention.

Others attempted to warn Iago. Stave off climbing too high. Others were less subtle, outright lamenting Iago's early death should he continue to breach that dangerously tempting realm of the elite and criminal.

His head connected with the metal swell of a bat. Iago's body hit the wall beside him, vision doubling with a wave of cloudiness. Above him loomed a silhouette, cold fingers wrenched up Iago's sagging head, the stranger's face inched closer. Zachary tutted, admiring his violent handiwork.

"They told me you were a fiery sort, I didn't expect it to be so easy," Zachary mocked. Iago blurted out a grunt of pain upon being struck again in the ribs. Zachary slung the bat nonchalantly over his shoulder. "But like all miserable wildfires, I'm going to have to snuff you out."

Nobody saw Iago again. Not a body, or a blot in conversation. Nobody wanted to ask for fear of invoking newfound interest from a certain man. They ignored the old bloodstains on the apartment brick, and ignored that a name almost on everyone's lips was now more a fragment forcibly forgotten.

Zachary thought the stereotype about those in mafias and gangs was untrue. One could be intelligent, poised and well established. But he had to admit the one portion that perhaps did in some instances ring true.

Violence is a necessity.