Page 64 of The Godfather’s Christmas Twins

"Mommy! Where's Max?" Daniella bursts into the kitchen with Dario on her heels, both still in their pajamas with bed-mussed hair.

I pause in pulling ingredients from the fridge. "He had to go to work early, sweetheart."

"But he always makes breakfast with us." Dario's lower lip trembles. "He promised chocolate chip pancakes for Thanksgiving."

My heart clenches. The kids have grown so attached to their morning routine with Max. I force a smile. "We can still make pancakes. I know his secret recipe."

"It's not the same." Daniella crosses her arms. "He does the funny faces with the chocolate chips."

I glance around the kitchen, half-expecting Max to appear and save me from their disappointment. But no luck. No coffee brewing, no pancake batter being mixed, no deep laugh echoing off the walls.

This isn't like him. Even on mornings when he has early meetings, he at least stops by to say goodbye to the kids. But he’s pulling away. I felt it this morning. I just wish he’d given the kids one last moment.

"Can we call him?" Dario asks, climbing onto a barstool.

"He plans to be back for Thanksgiving dinner. Let's give him some time to work," I say, wondering if he’ll be distant tonight. Max's absence right now feels deliberate, like he's already started the process of letting us go. I try to dismiss that idea. I know he’s feeling pressure from Nic to find Benny.

His words about our leaving come back to me. “If I do, or I don’t, either way, you’ll be going back to New York.”

We could leave as early as tomorrow. I need to get us ready.

Once the kids are fed and playing and the turkey is stuffed and in the oven, I head back to our rooms. The kids have accumulated so many new things during our stay, toys from the playroom Max insisted on filling, books he bought them. I need to sort through it all, figuring out what to take and what to leave behind.

In such a short time, everything here feels settled. Our routine. The kids' artwork hanging on the wall, the extra special ones going on the fridge. Meals. Movies. Quiet nights in his arms.

I sink onto the bed feeling sorry for myself. I told myself not to fall for him, not to dream of a life with him. Like a dummy, I failed.

The sound of the kids laughing drifts to me. They’re not in their playroom. Has Max come home? I push myself up from the bed, leaving the packing dilemma for later.

I hurry to the kitchen, expecting to find the children and Max whipping something up even though they’ve already eaten.

My heart drops as I see Daniella and Dario intently watching Maria with the pies.

"Can we do the whipped cream?” Dario asks Maria.

“When it’s time. It’s too early now,” she says.

“Maria, thank you so much for coming in, but it's Thanksgiving. You should be with your family,” I say as I join them in the kitchen.

She waves off my concern. "My boys are away. Besides, these little ones are like family too." She ruffles Dario's hair as she passes.

"At least let me pay you extra for today."

"Nonsense. My mother always said a quiet kitchen is a lonely kitchen. And look at these precious helpers. We'll have more fun cooking together than I would alone at home."

The kids beam at her words, and I feel a rush of gratitude for this woman who's made our stay here feel more like home.

"Now." Maria claps her hands together. "Who's going to help me wash and peel potatoes?”

“Me!” the kids chime, their hands shooting up.

I force myself to relish this time, to be Thankful for all I have. That doesn’t stop me from checking my phone as the day progresses to see if there is a message from Max. Each time I look, there’s nothing.

The clock edges toward two, and still no word from Max.

"When's Uncle Max coming?" Daniella tugs at my sleeve for the third time. "You said he'd be here for dinner."

"He'll be here soon, baby." But I wonder if he’s ditching us.Coward. I shake my head. No. He has important business. His job is to keep us safe. That is more important to him than a meal.