Mafia Boss Hung Up on His Wife's Goodbye—Her Suicide Note Named Him as the Reason

The sound of rain against the windows had become white noise over the past three hours. Elena Moretti sat curled in the corner of the master bathroom, her knees pulled to her chest, phone clutched in trembling hands. The marble floor was cold beneath her, but she barely felt it anymore. Numbness had a way of spreading when you'd been drowning for long enough.
The bottle of pills sat on the counter above her head. She'd been staring at it for the past twenty minutes, watching the orange prescription container catch the soft glow of the vanity lights. Anxiety medication, prescribed six months ago when the panic attacks had become too severe to hide. The doctor had given her thirty pills. Twenty-three remained.
She wondered, in that detached way that felt like watching someone else's life, how many it would take.
Her phone showed 11:47 PM. Marco still hadn't called back. She'd tried him four times in the past hour, each call going straight to voicemail after two rings. Not dead battery, not out of service area—he was actively declining her calls. Choosing not to answer. Choosing, as he had for the past two years, literally anything over her.
Elena opened their text thread with shaking fingers. The last message from him was from this morning: "Late tonight. Don't wait up." Before that: "Meeting ran over." Before that: "Tokyo deal needs attention." A litany of absences, each one chipping away at her until there was almost nothing left.
She typed slowly, each word feeling like it might be pulled from somewhere deep and vital: "I can't do this anymore, Marco. I'm so tired. I just wanted you to know that none of this is your fault. I'm just... I'm just so tired of being invisible."
Her thumb hovered over the send button. This was it. The final message. The last time she'd reach out to a man who'd stopped reaching back years ago.
She pressed send.
The message showed as delivered immediately. Then, thirty seconds later, the two check marks turned blue. Read.
Elena's heart lurched painfully in her chest. He'd seen it. Finally, after ignoring four calls, he'd actually looked at his phone. Relief and desperate hope warred in her chest. Maybe he'd understand. Maybe he'd call. Maybe—
Her phone rang.
Marco's name flashed on the screen, and Elena's hands shook so violently she nearly dropped the device. She answered on the second ring, bringing it to her ear with both hands to steady it.
"Elena, Christ—not tonight." His voice was sharp, impatient, carrying the edge he used when she was inconveniencing him. "I'm in the middle of something important. Can whatever crisis you're having wait until I get home?"
The words hit like physical blows. Not concern. Not worry. Just irritation that she'd interrupted whatever he was doing.
"Marco, I—" Her voice cracked, tears streaming down her face. "I need you. Please. I just need you to come home. I need—"
"Elena, I don't have time for this." Background noise filtered through the phone—music, laughter, the clink of glasses. A party. He was at a party while she was falling apart. "You do this every time I have an important event. The dramatics, the neediness. I'll be home tomorrow, and we can talk then if it's really that urgent."