After Gina's parents—the former heads of the Orange family—passed away,
Gina, fresh out of university, came to America to clean up the mess they'd left behind.
It wasn't just the family company, still floundering in its attempt to break into the U.S. market. There was also her younger brother, Dragan—good-for-nothing since childhood.
At first, when Dragan started veering off course, Gina tried to set him straight.
She disciplined him firmly and kept him employed in the company, hoping responsibility might spark some change.
But Dragan didn't repent. Instead, he sank deeper—first into gambling, then into deceit. After multiple failed interventions, he began hiding client orders and quietly siphoning company funds.
Disillusioned and exhausted, Gina cut him loose. She gave him a final payout, kicked him out of the company, and left him to fend for himself.
In Luca's memories of the original timeline, this uncle-turned-rogue showed up at the estate several times—always begging for money, always dripping with excuses.
But in the past two years, Luca hadn't seen him once. He didn't know what methods his mother, Gina, had used… but Dragan had vanished.
Now, it seemed his vices had only worsened. It wasn't just gambling anymore—he'd slid into drugs.
"Why are you here?"
It wasn't Luca who spoke, but Samira. Her eyes burned with open hostility as she stepped forward, shielding Luca behind her. She knew exactly what kind of man Dragan was.
Dragan recognized her too. The undisguised disgust on her face lit a fuse in him—but he swallowed his anger with practiced ease.
"Samira," he said, forcing a thin smile. "Don't forget—I carry the Orange name too. In a moment like this, it's only natural I'd come to check on Luca."
His gaze flicked to Luca's empty sleeve, then to the tombstone behind them.
Samira, who'd watched Luca grow up, saw that look—and her fury flared. But Luca, noticing it too, remained unreadable.
He'd been too caught up in the adrenaline of the battle in New York to worry about appearances. In fact, he'd kicked off his prosthetic arm like a soccer ball mid-celebration.
That arm wasn't ordinary. It was a custom exoskeletal limb, commissioned at great expense from Transia—a defense-tech firm that partnered directly with the U.S. Department of Defense. While it still lacked the fine dexterity of a real hand, it was already borderline sci-fi.
For now, Luca could've swapped it for a basic cosmetic prosthetic—one that made him look whole—but it wouldn't help him live better. So he'd opted to go without, waiting patiently for Transia's after-sales team to rebuild the damaged unit.
His disability didn't bother him. And he certainly wouldn't let strangers' stares—or relatives' pity—rattle him.
Gently pressing a hand on Samira's shoulder to calm her, Luca stepped forward. He met his adoptive uncle's eyes with icy composure.
"Uncle," he said, voice low and deliberate. "I'll still call you that—for now. And thank you for coming to Father's funeral."
He paused, letting the silence sharpen.
"But I recall Mother severed ties with you years ago. And as for Aunt Samira?" A faint, respectful tilt of his head. "I trust her far more than I'd ever trust some people."
Hearing Luca's words, Dragan straightened up—adjusting his collar with a practiced air of false concern.
"Kid," he said, voice slick with false sympathy, "New York State law doesn't recognize the severing of kinship. Blood is thicker than water." He jerked his chin toward Samira, eyes glinting with provocation. "And with your sister in this situation… well, as your uncle, I'll step in to take care of you."
A murmur rippled through the guests.
"Gina's just injured and unconscious," someone muttered.
"Is he here to seize control?"
"This guy thinks way too highly of himself."
Most of the crowd clearly disdained Dragan—he reeked of desperation and greed. Yet he scanned them with smug satisfaction, as if their whispers were applause.
Samira, worried Luca—still so young—might not see through Dragan's act, opened her mouth to intervene.
But Luca frowned first.
Where the hell did he hear about Gina?
Gina Orange—Luca's mother—had been critically wounded during the Battle of New York. Rushed to the hospital afterward, she was diagnosed with synaptic cocooning syndrome, an ultra-rare neurological condition triggered by sustained high-frequency energy exposure. The trauma caused misfolded proteins to encase cortical nerve endings, drastically slowing neural transmission and plunging the brain into a semi-dormant state.
Documented cases were vanishingly few—most patients exhibited only mild drowsiness or memory lapses. But the Battle of New York had changed that. Dozens of soldiers developed acute forms: some barely functional, others pronounced dead within days.
Gina fell into the ambiguous middle—stable, but unresponsive. No treatment existed. Not from NYU Langone, not from private neurology teams. Only palliative care, waiting for a miracle.
Luca had even asked Samira to contact Dr. Stephen Strange—New York's most brilliant (and arrogant) neurosurgeon. Strange hadn't even asked for a consultation fee. He'd simply said he was "too busy" and refused.
Now, all they could do was stabilize her—and hope.
The thing was… almost no one knew the full diagnosis. The official statement called it "temporary neural shock." The truth was tightly controlled.
So how did Dragan—missing for two years, drowning in gambling debts and narcotics—know?
Before anyone could react, Luca's voice cut through the tension like ice.
"Aunt Samira. Take him away. He's not welcome at my father's funeral."
Samira moved instantly, gripping Dragan's shoulder to haul him off.
But Dragan twisted free, sneering. "Scared, kid? The law's clear—you've got no legal capacity. The board will reconvene. And someone's got to step in as interim decision-maker."
His nostrils flared. Pupils pinpricked with manic excitement. Words tumbled out, ragged and overconfident.
"You think you're in control? You haven't even inherited the shares yet. Dead men can't vote. And vegetables sure as hell can't chair a shareholders' meeting!"
Samira's eyes blazed. She seized his collar and yanked him off his feet.
"Vegetable?!" she snarled. "They said she was unconscious—not brain-dead! Where did you get that idea, you rat?"
A new wave of unease swept the room. Many guests had ties to Orange Industries—investors, executives, partners. Now they eyed Luca with doubt. If Gina was truly in a vegetative state… what did that mean for the company?
But Luca ignored them. His focus narrowed on Dragan's slip.
"Shareholders' meeting?" Luca's voice dropped to a blade's edge. "What makes you think you have any standing in it? You don't own a single share. You're not on the board. You're not even family in any way that matters."