Venice is a city of masks: opulent, romantic, and drenched in secrets.
Angela, a young Portuguese woman, has spent her life trying to be invisible. As a cleaner at the cityâs most exclusive restaurant, she drifts through the shadows, scrubbing floors and daydreaming of a better life. She knows her place is to be unseen.
She cleans their floors. She never expected to clean their consciences.
In the concealed kitchens of Venice, flavors and horrors share the same recipe. When Angela stumbles upon a macabre discovery plated for the elite, her invisibility becomes her only shield. She has found a secret that the city would kill to keep quiet.
Teaming up with Michela, a tenacious police commissioner, Angela must step out of the shadows to expose a monster who believes himself untouchable. But in a city built on silence, the truth has a price.
The Flavor of Sin is a psychological noir about what it takes to be seenâand the deadly cost of unmasking a killer.
Venice is a city of masks: opulent, romantic, and drenched in secrets.
Angela, a young Portuguese woman, has spent her life trying to be invisible. As a cleaner at the cityâs most exclusive restaurant, she drifts through the shadows, scrubbing floors and daydreaming of a better life. She knows her place is to be unseen.
She cleans their floors. She never expected to clean their consciences.
In the concealed kitchens of Venice, flavors and horrors share the same recipe. When Angela stumbles upon a macabre discovery plated for the elite, her invisibility becomes her only shield. She has found a secret that the city would kill to keep quiet.
Teaming up with Michela, a tenacious police commissioner, Angela must step out of the shadows to expose a monster who believes himself untouchable. But in a city built on silence, the truth has a price.
The Flavor of Sin is a psychological noir about what it takes to be seenâand the deadly cost of unmasking a killer.
In the windowless vault beneath the restaurant Il Tricolore di Venezia, a pair of scarred knuckles hovered over a keyboard; the hands they belonged to trembled with anticipation.
The scent of salty sweat mingled with the aromas of savory sauces, freshly baked bread, and simmering stews coming from the kitchen. There was a mixture of tension and temptation in the air. Dimmable LED strips mounted overhead cast the room in a pale, clinical light. Little pearls of sweat glistened on the manâs skin, causing his shirt to cling to his muscles. A subtle but powerful musk emanated from him as he struck the enter key to launch the encrypted malware, sending digital tentacles slithering through fiber optic cables to erase his digital footprint even as they signed anotherâs death warrant. His pupils dilated under the monitorâs blue glow like a predatorâs would before it tasted the blood of its kill. He leaned forward, savoring the moment before impact.
Three strikes of the San Lorenzo tower clock echoed through the empty canals and narrow alleys until they reached the basement of the restaurant.
âââââââââââââââââ
A few hours later, on the other side of the globe, Emmaâs hands trembled as she read an email from Hotel Danieli.
âThom,â she gasped, âthree free nights in Venice! Is this real?â
Thom pushed the dish full of mac and cheese into the oven and joined her at the computer. After a few calls to confirm the offerâs legitimacy, they booked their vacation and planned to leave for the Easter break.
Venice had been their sanctuary last year. It was where Thom proposed beneath a blood orange sunset and Emma whispered yes against his neck. It was where the silk sheets in that baroque hotel room tangled around their bodies like the pillared arches of the palazzo. Emmaâs nails drew blood from Thomâs shoulders as they made love until dawn broke, their throats raw from crying out each otherâs names over and over.
âââââââââââââââââ
The private water taxi gleamed beside the dock at Marco Polo Airport. It was not yellow like the public Alilaguna ferries laden with tourists, but obsidian and sleek, intimateâperfect for lovers. The driverâs eyes never met theirs; his face remained obscured by his naval capâs visor as he examined their confirmation documents. His nod was curt, mechanicalâlike the snap of a guillotineâand his muscular arms shifted their luggage to the boat with apparent ease before getting them underway and leaving the busy airport behind.
Thom and Emma melted into each otherâs arms as Venice materialized through the mist like a mirage of spires and domes. Emma pressed her lips to Thomâs throat, feeling his pulse, and clutched his arm as the boatâs engine growled. The ocean gently sprayed their faces as the vessel accelerated across the lagoon. The soft click of locks engaging barely registered with them before the cabin sealed shut with a hermetic hiss; the gloved hand on a hidden valve went unnoticed.
In the rearview mirror, the driverâs eyes didnât so much as blink as their loving embrace slackened, their heads lolling together. Their lungs filled with invisible poison while their gazes remained fixed on the approaching city: the last sight they would ever share. La SerenissimaâVenice, their beginning and their endâwatched unaffected as their bodies slid down in the leather seats, still entwined, making their last sensation the warmth of each otherâs skin.
As consciousness slipped away, perhaps they found comfort in dreaming of a gondola gliding beneath a silver moon, whispered vows echoing under stone bridges, and fingers intertwined atop ancient marble balustradesâtender ghosts dancing behind their dimming eyes.
The driver cut the mahogany boatâs engine in the center of the laguna; it rocked gently in its own wake. Blood hammered in his ears as he wrenched open the cabin door to find the smell of death had already begun to seep into the polished wood. His gloved fingers violated every pocket and every seam of their luggage in search of any tech that might have served as a beacon or a tracker. He rolled the womanâs body over to access her husbandâs phone, crushing her limp hand beneath her own weight.
Despite the task before him, handling her pliant body and her shapely legs sent a shiver of arousal down his spine. The scent of her perfume took him back in a wink to the skirts his mother wore on Sundays for church. He took a moment to savor the sight of the womanâs elegant shoe dangling from her lifeless, sexy toes; a glimpse of red nail polish shone through her fine stockings.
After confirming the absence of any traceable items using a nonlinear junction detector, he returned to the helm and carefully navigated the water taxi into the canals. Minutes later, the boat slipped through the unmarked gate on Rio de San Lorenzo like a blade between ribs. The hull scraped stoneâthe sound muted like a coffin being lowered into its graveâas the boathouseâs maw swallowed it whole. The three-minute diversion near Hotel Danieli to dispose of the coupleâs tech had been executed with the clinical efficiency of a professional killer: barely detectable, even by a trained eye.
âââââââââââââââââ
Two weeks passed before the coupleâs frantic families filed missing persons reports. The police could only follow the digital ghost of Thomâs phone; it had carved a perfect arc across Veniceâs surveillance grid from Marco Poloâs bustling terminals to the elegant façade of Hotel Danieli, where the signal vanished like a candle, snuffed out by the lagoonâs breath. Emails recovered from Emmaâs inbox led nowhere, and surveillance cameras in the city and airport placed the couple in a water taxi, but lost any sight of them soon afterward. The driverâs face was not recognizable, and the boat did not have any clear markings to distinguish it from all the others in Venice. When questioned, the hotelâs bewildered concierge and management staff could only offer blank stares, as the prestigious establishment had never extended an invitation to the missing vegetarian couple.
1. A Stain on the Curtain
There was always blood in Venice: running through the palaces and churches and out the other end, down alleyways slick with mud, across bridges, past gondolas, out into the gray waters of the Adriatic Sea. The entire city floated on blood. It was red everywhere, bright and glittering, seeping through faded brocade patterns and reflected off touristsâ phone screens. Blood even trickled into the cleaning womanâs dreams, although she did not understand why until the day she found a long, red streak of it staining that curtain at work, already dried.
Angela knew she would hear her name shouted in fury before long, so she took the opportunity to whisper it softly to herself, hoping it would help her claim some small piece of the restaurantâs hushed elegance as her own.
Her cloth swept across the polished surface of the bar with practiced precision, leaving behind streaks of lemon-scented cleaner that then evaporated into nothing. The name of the restaurant was Il Tricolore di Venezia; this was not only a nod to the Italian flag, but to a tense sort of truce between two extremes on the menu, namely vegan and meat specialties. The Venetians would know the structure as the trinity, composed of Venezia Verde, Venezia Rosso and the bar Il Faro Bianco joining both restaurants.
The emerald glow of Venezia Verdeâs ambient lighting cast her shadow along the wall: a hunched but diligent figure moving through the empty restaurant like a ghost that still remembered its living routine. The place was empty now, its chairs upturned on tables like sleeping insects.
Angela worked methodically from one end to the other, almost mathematical in her efficiency. She took pride in transforming the chaos of a busy dinner service into this pristine setting. During her irregular day or night shifts, she erased the smudged fingerprints on titanium fixtures, the oily residue on glassware, and the crumbs that found seemingly impossible hiding places beneath tables.
The living plant wall that dominated one side of the restaurant required special attention. Angela misted it gently, removing stray leaves with a small pair of scissors she kept in her apron pocket. The wall represented everything the restaurant stood for: life, sustainability, and an expensive kind of morality that wealthy patrons wore as casually as they did their designer clothes. She sometimes wondered if the plants felt trapped there, like prisoners of aesthetics bound to live and die in service to human vanity.
When she was finished there, she moved through the connecting passage to Venezia Rosso, the restaurantâs carnivorous twin. The transition always struck her as deliberate theatricsâfrom airy brightness to something more primal. The red velvet upholstery and dark wood paneling created an atmosphere of almost sinful indulgence. Here, meat was served on heated stones with blood pooling at the edges, and customersâ faces lit up with carnal satisfaction as they cut into flesh.
Angelaâs cloth moved with the same efficiency across marble countertops and burnished copper fixtures. She polished wine glasses until they sang when she ran a dampened finger around their rims. The crystal chandeliers required an extendable duster that reached the ceiling, bringing down dust that danced in the shafts of artificial light. She had learned to clean in expanding circles, each more distant from the central hub of the kitchen, until the entire space gleamed in silent expectation for the next dayâs service.
Despite the chaos of meal rests scattered across the tables around her, the distant hum of the canal filtering through the window gave her a sense of peace. The soft glow of the lamps cast shadows on the walls. She thrived on turning disorder, imperfections, and unpredictability into polished excellence.
Il Faro Bianco, the bar connecting the two restaurants and serving as neutral territory where omnivores and strict herbivores could mingle, presented its own challenges. Its white and plexiglass surfaces showed every speck of dirt, every fingerprint. She attacked these imperfections with chemicals that burned her nostrils, moving her cloth in tight circles that left behind nothing but clinical perfection.
The most unusual feature of Il Faro Bianco was the plexiglass enclosure that was visible from the entrance corridor. The two black panthers werenât present that nightâthey were probably in their more spacious quarters behind the enclosure, in the restricted areaâbut Angela still checked the glass for smudges. Chef Federico Dal Sotto was particular about cleanliness.
âThe first impression,â heâd told her once as he watched her work with those unsettling eyes of his, âis the most important one. When they see those beautiful creatures, they must see perfection.â
The bell of the church of San Lorenzo had long since stroke ten by the time Angela reached the back of the restaurant. The storage rooms and wine cellars formed a labyrinth beneath the ancient palazzo, the rooms connected by narrow corridors that seemed to bend back on themselves. Some of them had plexiglass ceilings on which patrons could walk and peer through to check out the wine cellar or watch some kitchen apprentice gather ingredients from storage. She avoided the areas marked as restricted; the staff had been explicitly forbidden from entering those spaces, and Angela was not one to question such rules. Her job was to clean, not to explore.
She liked the abundance of beauty and precision as well as the passion underneath it all. She instead had learned to be indifferent. After two years of working there, she was used to the restaurantâs cold affluence and its even colder kitchen. The only warmth to be found was from the constant fury of the ovens. Not even the inevitable explosion from the chef could warm her. She just ignored his red face and kept her cool. But there was still that dark stain on the curtain.
It dangled in front of the entrance to the restricted section of the restaurant; it was as if it was unsure whether to conceal or reveal what lay beyond it. All she knew was that this room was reserved for special guests and private events.
She stared at the stain. Federico had not told her how he wanted her to clean blood from velvet. Maybe he had assumed she would know. Or maybe he had not meant for her to see this at all.
Angela reached for the special phone the kitchen second had given her during the introduction tour of the first day. He had then told her to use it in any moment she should need special supplies or detailed explanations of any kind. She almost called to ask for advice, for what kind of stubborn, rust-colored stain they needed taken care of, but stopped herself. In the restaurant, she spoke little. She knew better. The owners did not employ her because of her cleverness. Or maybe they did, and that was why they tried to keep her away from anything more involved than cleaning.
Angela crouched down, her knees protesting due to the hard floor, pulled a pair of latex gloves from her apron pocket, and slipped them on with practiced ease. She brushed her fingertips against the stain; it was dry, and slightly crusty. Her heart beat faster against her ribs. It was blood, but was it human blood?
The location of the stain made no sense. The stain was on the inside of the curtain, facing the forbidden area and not the main dining room; it couldnât have been the result of a kitchen accident. She leaned closer until her nose was inches from the fabric. There was no smell of food, no tannic hint of wine or sauceâjust the metallic scent she recognized from her childhood in Portugal, where her grandfather butchered animals brought in from the farm.
She was still contemplating this when she felt him approach. It was a sixth sense she had developed after growing up with a father and a brother who made nothing but noise: the ability to notice when a man moved too quietly.
âSignora Vaz de Almeida,â he said just above a whisper. He pronounced it Vash de Almeida, his slight, but strange accent letting the last word glide almost without the L, then having the jingle of his large key ring do the rest of the work for him. âYou seem puzzled.â
She composed herself, then met his eyes as best she could without staring too long. Their amber color was unsettling, not unlike the rest of him. An intuition flashed up to her mind The blood is starting to dry under his nails.
âThe curtain, chef,â she replied. âI found this stain here. But did I make a mistake? Should I not have cleaned so far back?â
âShow me.â
Angela pointed out the stain without touching it. Federico barely glanced at it before shrugging.
âItâs nothing to worry about, Angela.â His tone sounded deliberately casual, but was still as cold as a draft let in through an open door. âI was moving some meat deliveries earlier. Must have brushed against the curtain.â
The explanation made sense on the surface, but the stain was level with his knee: an odd place to make contact with while carrying packages. And Federico was meticulous about his appearance; his chefâs whites were always pristine, even after hours in the kitchen.
âSome areas of the restaurant are not your concern,â he added, his gaze pinning her in place. âBest to stay within your boundaries, as we agreed.â
The words were softly spoken, but landed with the weight of granite. This was not a suggestion, but a warning. Angelaâs throat constricted, but she quickly collected herself.
âOf course. I only mentioned it because Iâll need different cleaning supplies for it.â
âIâll take care of it.â He reached out suddenly and placed his hand on her shoulder in a friendly gesture that felt anything but. His fingers pressed slightly, finding the exact spot where tension had gathered at the base of her neck. âYouâve been working too hard. Finish up quickly tonight.â
His hand lingered a moment too long before falling away. Angela nodded, unable to speak, and watched Federico pull the curtain aside just enough to slip through, then disappear behind it. The fabric swayed in his wake, making the stain look like a wound tearing and repairing itself. Angela remained frozen as a door opened and closed somewhere in the forbidden area.
Only when silence returned did she exhale. She finished her shift with mechanical movements, her earlier ease replaced by hyperawareness of her surroundings. The restaurant suddenly seemed full of shadows, corners from which eyes might watch her, doorways that might open to revealâŠwhat? Her imagination provided no answers, only formless dread.
The curtain became a stain on her thoughts, impossible to scrub away. Chef Federicoâs warning echoed in her mind, but the unspoken part followed her as she gathered her supplies.
Stay within your boundariesâŠor else.
She found herself imagining a life in which sheâd never left Albufeira and had remained safe in her orderly routines. In another, sheâd pushed past this cleaning job and broken into something that mattered. She pictured herself in a police uniform, but then immediately saw her fatherâs disapproving face.
âAlways reaching beyond yourself.â
In Venice, she felt both invisible and conspicuousâa foreigner who could observe unnoticed, yet never truly belong. Some nights she dreamed of being in the police station, respected and certain; other nights, she imagined fleeing back to Portugal, admitting defeat. Both futures seemed equally impossible from where she stood, cloth in hand.
The next evening, Angela arrived at Il Tricolore di Venezia with a small bottle of hydrogen peroxide tucked in her bag. The liquid sloshed with each step, a chemical solution for a problem that had grown in her mind overnight. She spent hours replaying Federicoâs casual dismissal of the stain that didnât match the warning in his eyes. Professional pride demanded she treat the stain properly, regardless of boundaries, real or implied.
She began her shift with practiced motions, moving through the restaurants with a cart of supplies, nodding to the waitstaff preparing for the evening. Typically, there were more customers on Tuesdays than on Mondays, wealthy locals who preferred to avoid the lingering weekend tourists. Angela quickly finished with the public areas before any diners arrived, saving the curtain for last.
Wheeling her cart to the threshold between Venezia Rossoâs dining area and the back rooms, Angela felt a flutter of anticipation in her stomach. She pulled on her latex gloves with an echoing snap. The hydrogen peroxide bottle was cool against her palm as she removed it from her bag and crouched down, her eyes searching for the splotch that had plagued her dreams. The velvet shimmered under the restaurantâs artistic lighting, the deep crimson folds cascading to the antique floorboards. Her gloved fingers probed the area where the stain had been, but she found nothing but unsullied fabric.
Angela blinked. She had to have misremembered the location. She examined the entire lower edge of the curtain, centimeter by centimeter. Nothing. The stain that had definitely, undeniably been thereâŠhad vanished.
She sat back on her heels, the bottle of hydrogen peroxide dangling from her fingers. Had she imagined it? No, the blood was real. Sheâd touched it, smelled it, seen it. But now it was gone, as if the curtain was professionally cleaned overnight as if by magic.
Angela found Federico in the Venezia Rosso kitchen, instructing a young sous chef on the proper technique for breaking down a rack of lamb. His hands moved with surgical precision, as if the knife was an extension of his fingers. He glanced up as she approached, and a flicker of somethingâannoyance, or perhaps it was concernâcrossed his features before his professional mask returned.
âChef, may I speak with you privately?â Angela said lowly, conscious of the other staff nearby.
Federico nodded to the sous chef to continue, then wiped his hands on a towel and stepped away.
âYes?â
âThe stain on the curtainâitâs gone.â She clutched the hydrogen peroxide bottle like a weapon.
âStain?â His eyebrows lifted slightly.
âThe one I showed you yesterday. Someoneâs cleaned it.â
Federico shrugged his broad shoulders. âI ordered a waiter to take care of itâ
His tone was light, dismissive, but his eyes held a calculating look.
Federico smiled, but the expression never reached his eyes. âIâve been preoccupied with the new menu. Perhaps you misunderstood.â
The deliberate attempt to gaslight her sent a shiver down Angelaâs spine. She knew what sheâd seen, but now he was rewriting reality, and with the kind of ease that suggested he had practice.
âOf course. My mistake.â
She retreated with the unopened bottle of hydrogen peroxideâa useless weapon against this new, invisible threatâand was halfway to the freight elevator before she realized her hands were shaking.
Angela ducked into the staff bathroom, locked the door, and pushed her knuckles against the sinkâs cool porcelain. The air reeked of citrus cleaning spray and the sharp, ammoniacal ghosts of a thousand previous shifts. She stared at her reflection in the silver glass; her hair was raked back in a tight ponytail and sweat on her brow despite the autumn chill. The familiar image steadied her somewhat, but there was a sour taste at the back of her throat. Maybe it was embarrassment that sheâd allowed herself, even for a moment, to think the truth would matter here.
âThis is how it goes,â she whispered so faintly that her voice blurred into the ventilation hum. âYou see, you report, youâre erased. Factory reset.â
But beneath that, there was anger. It surprised her. Her mother would have said it was the family curse, this stubborn, looping resentment toward the unfair. Sheâd managed to keep her head down for years, cashing her paychecks, sending what she could home. Now, it had slipped its leash.
Throughout the rest of the day, Angela moved mechanically through her tasksâwiping counters, stacking platesâwhile her mind drifted across the Mediterranean. The scent of garlic in the pan became her motherâs bacalhau Ă bras steaming on their chipped table. When the chef barked an order, she heard her fatherâs voice cutting through their tiny kitchen.
âEscola de PolĂcia? Com que dinheiro?â His calloused finger would jab the air between them, and his mustache would twitch with each syllable. âThe daughter of a fisherman does not wear a badge. Clean your blouse for the shop tomorrow, girl! You think youâre too good for honest work? Dreams donât fill stomachs!â
But Angela continued daydreaming even though she despised herself for it, recalling the fishermenâs festival on Praça dos Pescadores at the beginning of each September. It was at that festival that she first swore to herself she would escape, even as she danced and laughed and pretended to love the life that was suffocating her. Still, she wondered which recollection would serve her better now: her fatherâs denial or her motherâs whispered warning to trust her instincts.
Angelaâs usual methodical cleaning became rushed, her movements less precise. She knocked over a bottle of glass cleaner, the liquid pooling on the marble countertop. A wine glass slipped from her fingers as she polished it; the stem snapped against the edge of the sink.
By seven oâclock, dinner service was in full swing and Angela had finished enough of her duties to justify leaving early. She stored her supplies, changed out of her uniform, and slipped out the service entrance into the chilly evening.
The narrow callĂ©âas they called the street passages in Veniceâoutside the restaurant glowed with the peculiar amber light of Venice at night. It was a mixture of ancient streetlamps and those spilling from apartment windows overhead. Angela pulled her coat tighter around her body and began walking to her apartment in the Castello district, beyond the touristy heart of the city.
Driven by an inner vibration, Angela stopped and turned to look back at the restaurant; the building proudly stood by the Rio de San Lorenzo in a deceptive embrace. Built in the sixteenth century, the red, dignified façade held deep memories. The walls spoke of a scandalous past. The building as a whole had a watchful air as a grand conspiracy of marble arches and balconies that captured the secrets escaping the lips of passersby. Worn by salt and commerce, the entrance was wide and welcoming in a city that often kept its doors tightly shut for protection. Its shape echoed the bones of Venice with casual abundance; the structure rebelliously clung to its place in the insensitive urban landscape, but there was unease in its balance. The fish-scale tiles bore the weight of time and had defied restoration attempts. They once poured green paint in the sleeping canal and turned the water green with lichen that traced the slow pain of decay.
Three distinct hearts beat within this exiled body; homely elegance was their only unifying creed. They pulsed against the night and wrapped the calm waters in a pale light. Venezia Verde, luminous with green tendrils lapping at its modern windows like fingers that invited a distracted lover. Venezia Rosso, warm and sinful, was a rich palette of crimson curtains and unbridled ambition. At the center of this enigma stood Il Faro Bianco, its entrance dominating the largest atrium and its glass surfaces reflecting soft colors with the ease of an expert deception. Terraces and staircases crept up like the bones of a giant skeleton, separate yet whole. They reached toward one another with the spidery logic of scaffolding, seemingly independently suspended and infinitely complex. Still, they provided order in chaos, meticulously connecting the red, green, and white.
Angela interrupted her own daydream and pivoted on her heel. Her route took her through the Sotoportego dei Preti, a covered passageway where her footsteps echoed among stones that centuries of passing feet had worn smooth. Venice transformed after dark, shedding its carnival mask of tourist-friendly charm to reveal something older, more mysterious. Water slapped against foundations that had been slowly sinking for ages. Rats scurried along the edges of canals. Conversations in the Venetian dialectâwhich was harsher than the Italian that was taught in schoolsâfloated to her ears from windows above her. The smell of stagnant water occasionally disturbed the peace as Angela crossed bridges where lovers exchanged promises and navigated passages that had shielded assassins with poisoned daggers centuries ago. The city had absorbed these stories into its stones, its waters, its very air. Now it would absorb hers as well, whatever it might be.
A sound behind herâmaybe footstepsâmade her quicken her pace. She glanced back to see an empty cobblestone street stretching into darkness. Just her imagination, she told herself, although her heart disagreed. She turned down a wider street where a few tourists still wandered, feeling safer in their oblivious presence.
She hadnât always been this fretful. When she first arrived in Venice three years ago, the city had seemed magical, romanticâlike a perfect setting for the love story she was certain would unfold when she followed Marco from Albufeira, leaving behind her parents and a stable job but certain that the sacrifice would be worth it. She never imagined finding herself alone, cleaning blood off of restaurant curtains and jumping at shadows.
The red heart of stone on the wall brought her back to the Venetian legend of the water spirit Melusina, who followed her lover Orio through impossible obstacles only to be betrayed. Angela heard that story during her first month in Venice, finding in it an uncomfortable parallel to her own journey. Marco had promised her one life and delivered another before disappearing altogether, leaving her with rent due and a tenuous grasp on Italian residency requirements.
Now she followed another uncertain path; her instincts warned her away from Il Tricolore di Venezia even as financial necessity kept her there. Between the forbidden areas, the mysterious stain, and Federicoâs veiled threats, something was wrong. But without another job lined up, she had few options.
Angela crossed the last bridge before reaching her apartment building, the ancient steps of which were worn into shallow valleys by generations before her. She paused at the top of them, looking back across the dark canal. Venice was spread out around her, a labyrinth of secrets both ancient and new. Somewhere in that maze, answers awaitedâif she dared to seek them out.
This is a dark and intriguing story set around a mysterious restaurant complex in Venice, a place full of hidden corners and unsettling secrets. At the centre of the novel is Angela, a cleaner who has chosen to move to Venice, where she can live quietly in the background after being deeply let down by her ex-husband and her family. She keeps her head down, avoids attention, and believes it is safer to stay invisible.
But Angela is far more interesting than she first appears. She is highly observant and notices things others overlook. Through her careful, almost forensic way of seeing the world, she begins to uncover the disturbing truths buried within the restaurant. Small details, strange routines, and unsettling patterns slowly build into something far darker, pulling both Angela and the reader deeper into the story.
A chance meeting at the gym becomes an important turning point for her. This unexpected connection allows Angela to form new bonds and slowly step out of the shadows she has been hiding in. As the story unfolds, she begins to reclaim her confidence and reshape her life, proving she is stronger and braver than she ever believed.
One of the strongest parts of this book is its originality. The crime storyline feels fresh, especially with its dark culinary themes woven throughout; it isnât for the faint hearted or perhaps for vegetarians, who donât fare well! The descriptions are vivid and unsettling, adding a unique edge to the atmosphere. Venice itself feels alive on the page, with a moody, almost claustrophobic presence that suits the story perfectly.
I didnât quite give this book a full five stars, mainly because the middle section shifts focus away from Angela to explore other characters backstory and different timelines. Whilst important to the plot, this change wasnât always smooth and briefly slowed the pace. That said, the story soon finds its rhythm again, building towards a strong ending that left me curious about what comes next.
A lovely surprise was the collection of recipes at the end of the book. I hadnât realised how closely they were linked to the chapters, and it was a clever, memorable touch. Overall, this is a compelling and unusual read, and I would definitely love to pick up the next book in the series. This author is definitely one Iâll be watching.