Plus, he seems to think that now, at the three-month mark, he’s owed a greater portion of my time. Instead of asking if I’m free Friday or Saturday night, he assumes it. He makes plans for us, and I have to tell him I’m busy with a work or a family dinner.

“You know, you could invite me to dinner with your family,” he said, in a sulky tone.

“It’s not a social dinner,” I told him. “We’re going over plans for phase two of the South Shore development.”

Most dinners with my family are working dinners, one way or another. Our business and our personal ties are so deeply intertwined that I would hardly know my father, mother, or siblings outside of “work”.

The fate of our business is the fate of our family. That’s how it works in the Irish mafia.

Dean has some idea about the Griffins’ criminal ties — it would be impossible not to. We’ve been one of the largest Irish mafia families in Chicago for two hundred years.

But he doesn’t get it. Not really. He thinks of it like an interesting backstory, like people who say they’re descended from Henry the Eighth. He has no idea how current and ongoing organized crime is in Chicago.

It’s always a dilemma in my dating life. Do I want a boyfriend who’s ignorant of the dark underside of this city? Who could never really understand my deep entrenchment in my family? Or do I want one of the “made men” who works for my father, cracking heads and burying bodies, with blood under his fingernails, and a gun perpetually concealed on his person?

Neither, really.

And not just for those reasons.

I don’t believe in love.

I’m not denying it exists — I’ve seen it happen for other people. I just don’t believe it will ever happen for me.

My love for my family is like the roots of an oak tree. A part of the tree, necessary for life. It’s always been there, and it always will be.

But romantic love... I’ve never experienced it. Maybe I’m just too selfish. I can’t imagine loving somebody more than I love my own comfort, and having my own way.

The idea of being controlled by someone else, doing things for their convenience instead of mine... no thanks. I barely tolerate that for my family. Why would I want to center my life around a man?

I pack up my briefcase and head out of the office tower on East Walker Drive. I walk home, because my condo is only four blocks away from work.

I bought it just this summer. It’s in a brand new building with a gorgeous fitness center and swimming pool. There’s a doorman, and a fantastic view from my living room up on the 38th floor.

It was past time. I’d been living in my parents’ mansion on the Gold Coast. Their house is so huge that there was plenty of space for everyone — no real reason to leave. Plus it was convenient to all be in the same house together, whenever we needed to go over business-related material.

But then Cal got married, and he and Aida found their own place. And Nessa left too, to be with Mikolaj. Then it was just me alone with my parents, with the distasteful sensation of having been left behind by my siblings.

I have no interest in getting married like they did, but I could certainly move out.

So that’s what I did. And I love it. I love the quiet and the space. The feeling of being on my own for the first time in my life.

I wave to Ronald, the doorman, and take the elevator up to my apartment. I change out of my blazer, blouse, and slacks, putting on a one-piece swimsuit instead. Then I grab my waterproof headphones and head up to the pool.

The pool is on the roof of our building.

In the summer, they open up the atrium overhead, so you can swim under the stars. In the winter, it’s enclosed from the elements, though you can still see the sky though the glass.

I love to lay on my back and swim back and forth, looking up.

I’m usually the only person in the pool when I come this late. Sure enough, the space is dim and quiet, the only noise the water lapping against the rim of the pool.

It smells of chlorine and fabric softener, from the fresh stacks of towels laid out on the lounge chairs. I set my phone down on one of the chairs, after turning on my swimming playlist.

I’m about to jump in the pool when I realize I forgot to fix my hair. I usually braid it and put it under a swim cap, so the chlorine doesn’t dry it out. Red hair is fragile.

It’s still in a chignon from work, twisted up with one of those two-pronged hairpins.

I don’t really want to go all the way back down to my apartment. This will be fine, for one single time.

I put my hands over my head and dive into the water with one, clean jump. I stroke back and forth across the pool, listening to California Dreamin’ on my headphones.

I’m wearing goggles, so I can look down into the bright blue water, illuminated with pot lights from below. I see a dark shape down in the corner of the pool, and I wonder if somebody dropped something down there — a gym bag or maybe a canvas bag of towels.

Turning over, I lay on my back and look up at the glass ceiling. It reminds me of a Victorian greenhouse — the glass bisected by a latticework of metal. Beyond the glass I see the black sky, and the pale, shimmering disc of a nearly-full moon.

As I’m looking up, something locks around my throat and drags me down under the water.

It pulls me down, down, all the way down to the bottom of the pool, heavy as an anchor.

The shock of something grabbing me from below made me let out a shriek, and now there’s almost no air in my lungs. I kick and struggle against this thing that’s caught hold of me. I claw at the thing wrapped around my throat, feeling something spongy “skin” with hard flesh beneath.

My lungs are screaming for air. They feel flat and deflated, the pressure of the pool pressing against my eardrums and my chest. I twist around just a little and see black flippers kicking by my feet, and two arms in a wetsuit wrapped tightly around me.

I hear the exhale of a respirator next to my right ear. It’s a scuba diver — a man in a scuba suit is trying to drown me.

I try to kick and hit him, but he’s got me pinned with both his arms constricting me like an anaconda. The water slows the force of any blow I aim at him.

Black sparks burst in front of my eyes. I’m running out of air. My lungs scream at me to take in a breath, but I know if I do, only chlorinated water will pour into my throat.

I reach behind me and grab what I hope is his respirator. I yank it as hard as I can, pulling it out of his mouth. A stream of silvery bubbles pours up next to me. I hoped that would force him to let go, but he doesn’t even try to replace it. He knows he’s got more air in his lungs than I do. He can hold out while I drown.

I feel my chest heaving, as my body tries to take a breath with or without my consent.

In one last, desperate motion, I yank the hairpin out of my bun. I twist around and stab it into the man’s neck, right where the neck meets the shoulder.

I see his dark, furious eyes through his scuba mask.

And I feel his grip relax around me, just for a split-second, as he flinches with shock and pain.

I pull my knees up to my chest and kick at his body, as hard as I can. I shove myself away from him, rocketing upward to the surface.

My face breaks the surface and I take a huge, desperate gasp of air. I’ve never tasted anything more delicious. It’s almost painful how much air I drag into my lungs.