The hesitation in Anthony's eyes vanished. He knelt to support Jasmine, then looked up at me, gaze ice-cold.
"You'd better pray she's fine," he spat. "If she isn't, your entire family will pay."
He turned to the guards. "Get her to the ambulance. Now."
The paramedics and the doctor were dumbfounded.
"Sir, that's impossible!" The doctor gestured to my in-laws. "These patients are critical—they need immediate transport. The woman has a head injury, but she's stable. Let the elderly go first!"
Jasmine let out a sharp wail, clutched her head tighter, and went limp in Anthony's arms.
His expression darkened. "Can't you see she's unconscious? Drive. Now."
"But sir—"
"If anything happens to her," Anthony cut in, voice low and dangerous, "Mercy General can forget the Sanchez Group's donation next year. Understand?"
The threat hung heavy. The nurse paled, gritted her teeth, and slammed the ambulance doors shut.
I watched in horror as the vehicle sped away—sirens wailing, carrying the woman who caused all this—while my dying in-laws lay on the cold pavement, waiting.
The doctor left behind at the restaurant scrambled to find transportation, his face pale with urgency.