More than a Red Thread

By Liliana Del Rosso

Two sisters, in disagreement over love, try to overcome a thorny relationships. When they think that their wounds are beginning to heal, destiny returns, relentlessly, to charge what it's due.

Raquel, unable to forgive, becomes a bitter, monotonous and controlling woman. Alaya, isolated from her family, takes an obsessive refuge in her job. Erick, the man that split them, a journalist addicted to adrenaline, always after sensationalist and dangerous stories. Unsatisfied with his work on the Afghan War, decides to infiltrate the world of Colombian drug trafficking. A life of excesses made him fall in a bottomless pit, dragging everyone around him along.

Three people whose lives form up a painful story, after eight years, come together again to meet for reasons very different to love. When it all seemed forgotten, pride and love will be put again on a scale. Destiny will force them to put behind the pain and resentment that split them one day.

What do they need to forgive?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Nov 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781071515501

Book preview

More than a Red Thread

Liliana Del Rosso

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Translated by Ricardo Guirado 

More than a Red Thread

Written By Liliana Del Rosso

Copyright © 2019 Liliana Del Rosso

All rights reserved

Distributed by Babelcube, Inc.

www.babelcube.com

Translated by Ricardo Guirado

Cover Design © 2019 Alana Acuaterra

Babelcube Books and Babelcube are trademarks of Babelcube Inc.

The past is that which the present works to its whim, endlessly.

-Jorge Luis Borges.

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—Drop that and do it for...

—No, no, please no...

The young man, drenched in sweat, rose from the bed begging for his life. She turned on the lights.

—It’s just a nightmare—. She goes to the window and opens it—. Look.

He, still confused, looks at the streetlights and takes a sigh of relief. The familiar sounds help him feel at home.

—I’m sorry—. He says, cleaning the sweat off his face—. I better shower, I feel filthy—. He goes to the bathroom and locks the door.

She doesn’t try to help him anymore, it’s been a while since he’s reluctant to share her company. She sits on the edge of the bed and takes cover with the sheets. The breeze of the Thames, heavy and humid, runs across the room.

In the bathroom, the dripping of the shower beats like thousands of minuscule drums against the curtain, hiding a heartrending sob.

Life is simple, but we insist on complicating it.

-Confucius.

London, November the 19th, 2016.

Alaya, a thirty year-old Madrilenian, walks the same path every morning just along the Thames, crosses the same bridge and makes her way through the same avalanche of tourists. Autumn marches on; the weather is cold and London's fog is still dense.

She walks, relaxed, feeling how dampness encompasses her hair. Water's whisper, usually overtoned by hundreds of people, is her best company today. She stops briefly near Tower Bridge. I could spend hours admiring its beauty. An alarm on her phone marks a hasting hour, and she hustles to her friend's café to pick up breakfast.

Francisco had set up an electric spirit in this place.Standing in the middle of the road between traditional Spanish and English spaces: An ancient store from the late XIX century, remodelled in minimalist design, brandishing bricked walls with the work of upcoming artists on display. Its double height window turned into a showcase with an open view into the heart of the shop. A U shaped bar surrounded by stools and, along the side-lines, mirroring wooden benches. On the crystal door, a carved phrase stood as a welcoming sign:

The Spanish café is not a pass-through, it's a place to make friends.

—Good morning, Francisco. Hey, something smells good! Nothing like a coffee at this time in the morning.

—My favourite client, always so enthusiastic. I'll make your Asturian honey toast.

Alaya smiled, and went to her usual table: hidden behind the folding screen that gave way to the storage’s door, between the bar and the window. A seemingly forgotten corner, away from noise and the clientele’s frantic coming-and-going, but one that allowed her to see everything around the shop. Mumbles, laughter, suggestive stares and dismissive glares; millions of images to portray on her daily column. Under the title From the Spanish Café, reflecting the daily life of Londoners.

After answering a call, she took off her jacket, leaving it on the chair and approaching the bar.

—Francisco, I need your help. I have a fat fish on my hands. A newsflash to leave one or two folks bare-assed.

—I’m all ears, but have your breakfast first.—He put over the bar a mug, a plate with two pieces of toast and a honey jar. — Suit yourself, I’m feeling generous today.

As this day, there didn’t tend to be a lot of clients first hour in the morning. Francisco made himself a coffee, pulled a stool and sat next to the young woman.

—What can I help you with?

—I can’t trust anyone. I’m worried that some snoop catches the material and gets off with the headline. Not even my boss has seen it. —She said, putting an USB over the table.

—Alaya, please, tell me this isn’t anything dangerous. You almost got done over with the organ trafficking one.

—Well, well... —she takes a hand to her right side—