Chapter 1

I died three days before the Consecration Night.

The moment the third bullet punched through the back of my head, all I could think about was Isabella's last shooting drill—how she had missed the target by two full feet and cried into Papa's shoulder for an hour.

The East River was colder than I expected. Colder than the cufflink I'd glimpsed on the shooter's wrist as he lowered the gun—the black eagle clutching a rose. Our family crest.

When I opened my eyes again, I realized I had gone back to six months ago.

"Vita, I bombed the range test again. Can you show me how you clear a jam?" Isabella stood at my bedroom door, clutching an unloaded Beretta she clearly didn't know how to handle. Her blue eyes were all red and puffy.

I just stared at her for a long time in silence until she finally looked down, clearly feeling awkward.

Back then, in my previous life, I would have agreed right away—no questions asked. I would stay up late every night, falsifying her training logs and doing her dirty work on the streets, leaving barely any time to prepare for my own trials.

But in the end, the Blessing went to her.

"No," I replied coldly, shutting her down without hesitation.

Isabella froze, staring at me in disbelief. "W-What did you just say?"

"I said no. I have to get ready for the Consecration Night too. I don't have time to hold your hand on the range," I said, shifting my focus back to the family ledger on my desk.

But out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of anger in hers.

Isabella bit her lip. "Vita, you already have the Blessing. Why can't you help me out? We share Papa's blood, don't we?"

I rolled my eyes inwardly. Seriously? How dare she mention that?

In my previous life, I was so gullible. I actually believed my parents when they said the Blessing was just an empty title, and that the real deal was the Consecration Night. So I willingly gave up my chance and poured all my time into helping Isabella secure her footing.

In the end, she took my Blessing, and I ended up taking three bullets to the head right before the ceremony.

"The Blessing is mine. What does that have to do with you?" I snapped the heavy leather ledger shut and stared her straight in the eyes.

Isabella's face turned crimson. "Vita, how can you be so selfish?"

"Selfish?" I let out a sneer. "Then what do you call it when you ask me for help?"

She was left speechless, her eyes brimming with tears as she ran out of the room.

Not long after, my mother, Camilla, rushed upstairs.

"Vittoria, how could you say no to your sister? Her aim has always been weaker than yours—as her big sister, you should help her out," she scolded.

I looked at the woman in front of me, her face full of blame, and couldn't help but feel a wave of bitter irony.

In my past life, it was her endless guilt-tripping that pushed me to give up my own future bit by bit.

"Mama, I have to get ready for the Consecration Night, too. It's not my job to babysit anyone," I said firmly.

"You already have the Blessing. Why are you even bothering with the ceremony prep?" Camilla frowned. "And what if your sister gets targeted by our enemies because of her weak skills?"

"That's on her," I replied coldly.

Camilla's face twisted with anger. "Vittoria, is that how you talk? She's your sister!"

"So what? Just because she's my sister, I have to sacrifice myself for her?" I shot back.

"You're both my daughters, of course I want you both to do well. But Bella needs more help than you. As her older sister, you should learn to give way," Camilla said.

Those words stabbed into my heart like Nonna's old stiletto blade.

In my past life, I only cared about the Family's needs and ignored my own, so much that I ended up giving away my own life.

"Mama, I'm tired. I need to rest," I said, getting up and heading for the door.

Camilla grabbed my arm. "Vittoria, what's wrong with you? Why are you suddenly so cold?"

I turned back to her, my tone extremely calm. "Maybe I just grew up."

I brushed her hand off and walked out of the room, her frantic voice chasing after me. "Vittoria, get back here right now!"

But I didn't look back.

On my way downstairs to the grand foyer, I happened to run into my father, Marco, who had just come home from the docks.

"Vita, what's going on? I heard your mama yelling for you upstairs," he said.

"It's nothing," I replied.

Marco started up the stairs, then paused and turned back. "Oh, by the way—Consigliere Don Matteo sent word today. Your Blessing is all set. Head to his study tomorrow to handle the Consecration Papers."

My heart skipped a beat. "Papa, is the Blessing really mine? It won't go to anyone else, right?"

"Of course not. You earned it after three years of proving your worth to the Family. No one can take that away from you," Marco said, smiling as he patted my shoulder. "Finally, a seat on the Commission for our family."

No one can take it away? I scoffed inwardly.

That wasn't what happened in my past life. Back then, Isabella was crying and begging for the Blessing, saying she needed it more than I did, and my whole family started taking turns to talk me into giving it up.

"Papa, if I gave up the Blessing, could Isabella get it instead?" I asked.

Marco looked taken aback. "Why do you ask?"

"Just asking, you know, like a what-if."

"In theory, no. The Blessing is based on your overall performance. No one else qualifies for it," Marco said, frowning. "Vita, is there something on your mind?"

I shook my head. "No, just curious, that's all."

Thinking back, they must have used some shady means with the Consigliere to get that Blessing transferred in my past life.

"Papa, I want to ask you something else," I said.

"Go ahead," he said.

"Papa, if Isabella and I were both bleeding out on the same floor, and you only had time to put pressure on one wound—whose would it be?"

Marco looked at me, clearly caught off guard. "You're both my daughters—of course I'd save both of you. What a foolish question."

"What if you could only choose one?" I pressed.

Marco was silent for a long time before finally saying, "I hope I'll never have to make that choice."

But deep down, I knew that if it ever really came to that, he'd pick Isabella without even hesitating.

In my past life, whenever I took a bullet for the Family and ended up in the clinic, my father never came to see me. He sent a low-level soldier. Isabella would always tell me later—with tears in her eyes—that "Papa was just too heartbroken to see you hurt like that."

Now I understood. He wasn't heartbroken. He was just too busy comforting Isabella.

She had always been better at it—the trembling voice, the tears that came right on cue, the wide, wounded eyes that made everyone want to shield her.

And me? From the moment I could hold a gun, I was taught to be the sensible one—the reliable enforcer who always let Isabella go first.

Back in my room, I pulled out my phone and scrolled to a familiar number.

Time to test the second person who helped kill me.