Is Dr. Death Novel Based On A True Story?

So what if you're formidable or filthy rich? Don't you dare get cocky with me. I'm Cassian York. I can save your life, and I can end it, too!

A doctor who saves helpless people and a serial killer who hunts monsters. A daughter to a decorated officer becomes the city's best doctor, but also a serial killer who hunts and kills pedophiles and rapists including her father. Her husband, and police officer Noah Adler, is the hidden leader of a child trafficking and organ harvesting syndicate that operates through her hospital and worse, she married the wrong twin. As missing children and illegal surgeries begin to point back to her workplace, Dr Karma Kuntz in order to clear her name and find out the truth unknowingly walks closer to the truth — and also to danger. Who kills who? Will love save them both? Is this a crime or is this justice? Where is the other twin?

The new intern in the unit had to be chronically incompetent. He handled my mother's post-surgery medication and somehow mixed up the drug. He gave her a potent blood thinner. That night, she died from a hemorrhage after her operation. Before I could even accuse him, the intern had his puppy-dog eyes ready. "I'm sorry, Dr. Benford, but I thought that was the drug you wanted me to mix. Who was I to question my superior's order?" Then the hospital director, who was also my wife, chimed in, "Your mom is the idiot for taking her meds without checking. She brought this on herself." I was so enraged that I had a heart attack, which meant I had to undergo surgery in the same hospital. The intern insisted on redeeming himself and assisted Victoria during the operation. He could not even thread a needle because his hands kept trembling. In the middle of the procedure, this medical fraud removed his mask and wet the end of the surgical thread to force it through. I died in the ICU the next day. The cause was a bacterial infection. As I neared death, I heard the intern whine through tears, "How could I be so careless? If I weren't so clumsy, Dr. Benford would have lived." Victoria gently ruffled his hair. "Don't take it to heart, pumpkin. Everyone knows how risky medical procedures can be. You're just starting out, so don't be so hard on yourself." Because of my wife's efforts, both my mother and I were cremated without any investigation or disciplinary action. You would think that was the end. It wasn't. The next time I opened my eyes, I was back on the day Hugo Spencer first joined our hospital as an intern.

Doctor Catherine Ross is a surgeon on the rise. She is well liked by her colleagues and loves her job at the emergency department of a major hospital in the city. She has the heart in the right place and would do anything to save a life. But her confidence is only related to her occupation. When it comes to romantic relationships she is severely lacking. Her too full curves and being a bookworm has led to bullying and low self esteem. Alessio Peccati is a handsome bachelor on the outside and heartless mafia boss on the inside. He would never give up a chance to torture and harm a person who has done him injustice. He looks good and knows it. A new woman on his arm every week, all of them slim, made up, fake and perfect. Perfect for an official outing. Perfecty submissive for a few nights of hard fucking. But too fake to keep. When a member of his family is shot in a deserted parking lot and Catherine is nearby, she doesn’t hesitate to help. What she doesn’t know is that if you mix with the mafia, there is only one way out, by death. Now she is a captive of the Peccati family and forced to work as a doctor and a surgeon for the man holding her captive. Soon Alessio finds he has more interest in the confident and independent doctor than just business related. He has never wanted a woman like he wants Catherine. How will Catherine find her new life? Will she ever be free from her captivity? Will she ever want to be free? For a mature audience only! This book contains explicit content with violence, murder, torture, psycological abuse, depression, suicide attempt, rape, noncunsensual and forced sex.

In the late stages of her pregnancy, my wife slipped away into the mountains with her childhood sweetheart, seeking some reckless thrill under the open sky. Fate, however, had other plans. She suffered a massive hemorrhage, and the two were rushed to the hospital. As a doctor, I took one glance at her condition and instructed the nurse to prepare for the cremation. In my previous life, I had risked everything to save her. On that very operating table, she and the child inside her perished together. Her childhood sweetheart, overcome with grief and fury, rallied others to accuse me of seeking personal revenge. Their rage was relentless, and they broke my hands. "A butcher like you, without medical ethics, deserves nothing less than eternal damnation!" they shouted, their words burning like brands on my soul. Yet I distinctly remembered—the surgery had been a success. Her vital signs had stabilized. Clinging to hope, I begged my in-laws to conduct an autopsy, to uncover the truth buried beneath the accusations. Instead, they called the police, who swiftly charged me with performing surgery under the influence of alcohol. Stripped of my rights, I was thrown into prison, where suffering became my only companion. Years later, upon release, I stumbled across a sight that tore what was left of my heart to shreds—my wife, alive and well, behind the wheel of a luxury car, accompanied by her childhood sweetheart and their child, living off the fortune I had worked tirelessly to build. Their betrayal didn't end there. Coldly and methodically, they lured me into a trap, casting me into a cement mixer to erase every trace of my existence. When I next opened my eyes, time had rewound itself. I was back on that fateful day, the one when her hemorrhage began.

This year, as the country's leading neurosurgeon, I was invited to perform a high-profile specialist surgery at a hospital in another state. Twenty years ago, I stood in this very operating room. My mother suffered a cerebral hemorrhage, and the surgeon's hand slipped by less than a quarter of an inch. She died. Back then, it was my first love, Ethan Lancaster, who helped me through the grief. Only later did I learn the truth. The surgeon listed on the case was Ethan's father, the hospital's renowned Chief of Neurosurgery. But the one actually holding the scalpel was Ethan himself, still a surgical resident at the time. He and Vanessa Hart had planned it all along. They used my mother's operation as a practice case to advance his career. After the tragedy, Vanessa used her status as the hospital director's daughter to bury the entire incident. From that day forward, I gave up my guaranteed research placement and sat for medical school entrance exams again. I studied from undergraduate through postdoctoral training. I spent twenty full years turning myself into the kind of surgeon who would never make that mistake. All so that one day, no one else would have to suffer the same tragedy my mother did. Today, my assistant slid a patient's file across the desk. Brainstem tumor. Late stage. Extremely high risk. The face in the photo had aged considerably, but I recognized it at a glance. I handed the file back to my assistant and removed my surgical coat. “I can't perform this surgery.”