The idea of "fighting for custody" had barely crossed Luca's mind before he dismissed it outright.
For one, his mother, Gina, was only in a coma—she hadn't yet reached the point where legal custody would be formally contested.
But more troubling was the likelihood she'd slip into a vegetative state. Even if Luca acted immediately, his uncle Dragan—whose history of gambling and drug use was an open secret—could easily expose that past. And even if the court awarded custody to Child Welfare or placed Gina's affairs in a family trust, it still wouldn't go to him.
Besides, even if he somehow gained custody, the company's shareholders would never allow someone like him to manage the business.
"Maybe I should try collecting medical-grade synthetic tools to revive Gina," he thought. "If the cheat system works the way I suspect, there should be plenty of advanced medical tech available."
He set that uncertain hope aside for now and shifted focus.
"Where does Dragan get his confidence? Does he really think he can influence the board of directors?"
Family ties alone couldn't secure him a meaningful share of voting power—surely not enough to sway decisions.
"Unless… he's acquired shares privately. But where would he get that kind of money?"
In his past life, Luca had seen too many gamblers and addicts like Dragan. He didn't believe someone like that could turn their life around—let alone amass serious capital—in under two years.
If Dragan wasn't already bankrupt or drowning in debt, Luca might've considered him reformed. But this? This reeked of something else.
"How did he convince the other shareholders? Or… is there someone backing him?"
Luca had little experience with corporate maneuvering, and his thoughts spun in chaotic circles. Nothing added up.
"I'll have to wait until Samira deals with this uncle first. Maybe then I can squeeze some answers out of him."
Honestly, he was almost grateful the idiot had exposed himself so openly instead of scheming in the shadows.
A truly dangerous opponent would've stayed hidden. But Dragan had charged in like a bull—deliberately, almost gleefully.
"Which only means… he's got someone powerful behind him."
Just then, the sharp click of high heels echoed from down the path.
Gasps rippled through the crowd of departing guests—those who'd lingered after the earlier commotion.
Luca's hand instinctively went to his waist as he spun around.
But when he saw who it was, his expression shifted to confusion.
"Mr. Orange," the woman said smoothly. "I've come to pay my respects—on Tony's orders."
She was tall, poised, and radiated quiet authority. Heads turned as she walked—some out of admiration, most out of recognition. Even mourners from nearby funerals glanced her way.
It wasn't just her striking presence that drew attention. It was her status.
Among the elite gathered in this section of the cemetery, many recognized her instantly:
Pepper Potts—CEO of Stark Industries.
"Ms. Potts?" Luca asked softly, his voice edged with disbelief as he looked at Tony Stark's long-time partner, the woman who'd rebuilt Stark Industries from the ground up.
Pepper Potts scrutinized Luca's unusually youthful face, a flicker of tenderness softening her gaze.
She had come on Tony's orders.
Originally, lacking a formal invitation to the funeral, she'd planned to meet Luca outside the cemetery and deliver Tony's condolences in private. But after catching wind of the earlier commotion, she'd changed her mind and stepped inside.
Now, watching the last of the guests depart in silence while the one-armed boy stood alone before the tombstone, even the usually unflappable Pepper Potts felt a quiet pang of sympathy. Her voice, when she spoke, was gentler than intended.
"Tony told me you played a significant role during the Battle of New York."
She paused, choosing her words with care. "I'm here first to express his deepest regrets over the loss of the Orange family—and second, to thank you personally for your help back then."
A ripple went through the few stragglers still lingering nearby. Dragan's earlier outburst had left some skeptical, even resentful—but now, hearing Pepper Potts invoke Tony Stark's gratitude, their expressions shifted to something closer to envy.
After all, this was the CEO of Stark Industries—bearing the personal thanks of Iron Man himself.
Even though Stark Industries had shuttered its weapons division and its ties to the government had grown strained, its wealth and leadership in clean energy still placed it among the most influential corporations on the planet. And Tony Stark? He'd saved New York. His endorsement alone could launch a company like Orange Industries into the stratosphere.
Yet Luca showed no excitement. To him, these were just familiar faces from the movies—characters he'd watched on screen a hundred times. No matter how powerful Pepper Potts was in this world, he couldn't quite summon awe for what felt like "familiar strangers." He simply gave a polite nod.
"It's an honor, Ms. Potts," he said quietly, "to attend my father's funeral. There's really no need for thanks."
Pepper studied him for a moment, then gave a small, knowing shake of her head. She gestured behind her.
A stocky man in a dark suit—more executive than enforcer—jogged over, briefcase in hand. It was Happy Hogan, Tony's longtime head of security and friend.
Without a word, Happy placed the case into Luca's arms.
"Tony's been tied up with disaster relief efforts and couldn't come himself," Pepper explained, her voice low but clear. "But he wanted you to have this."
Luca blinked, bewildered. A gift… at a funeral?
Pepper's eyes flickered to his missing arm. "Go ahead," she urged softly. "Open it. I think you'll find it useful."
Though she hadn't raised her voice, the words carried. Onlookers froze mid-step, craning their necks with poorly concealed curiosity. What could Tony Stark possibly send that warranted Pepper Potts delivering it in person?
Out of respect, no one moved closer—but every eye was fixed on the case.
Luca set it on the stone bench beside him and clicked the latches open.
Nestled in crimson-and-gold velvet lining lay… an arm.
Not just any prosthetic—the skin texture was uncanny, the musculature precise, the fingers poised as if ready to move. It mirrored his own left arm down to the smallest detail… except for one thing: the hand was reversed, its palm facing backward.
If not for the faint gleam of exposed actuators at the elbow joint, Luca might have thought it was real.
And more striking still—
To his eyes alone, the arm pulsed with a faint, steady white light.