Rage boiled through me. I raised my phone to snap a picture—evidence to force Anthony's eyes open.
Before I could focus, a heavy boot slammed down. A security guard snatched the device and crushed it under his heel.
"Mr. Sanchez's orders," he growled. "No photos. No videos. Unless you want to make an enemy of the Sanchez Group."
He turned to the crowd. "Cooperate, and all bills today are twenty percent off."
The diners complied instantly, heads bowing as they deleted the evidence.
I retrieved my phone from the asphalt—screen shattered, display dead.
The second ambulance finally screamed to a halt. I climbed in, clutching my father-in-law's hand as we sped toward Mercy General.
"Acute myocardial infarction," the doctor shouted over the siren. "Critical. She needs immediate surgery."
Beside me, my father-in-law stirred. Hearing the diagnosis, a sob tore from his throat before his eyes rolled back.
"Stroke indicators!" a paramedic yelled. "Vitals crashing!"
Thirty minutes later, I stood outside the ICU clutching two critical condition notices. My hands trembled.
They only wanted to surprise their son.