Little Sunshine by Layla Frost

I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth.
Mine was gold, diamond encrusted, and held in place by household staff.
With a trust fund I’d never be able to blow through, I didn’t need to work a day in my life. I sure as hell didn’t need the kind of job I had.
But I wasn’t in it for the money. It was for personal satisfaction. A love of a job well done. What’s that saying about never working a day in your life if you love breaking fingers and burying bodies where they’ll never be found?
I might be paraphrasing, but it was still the truth.
My boss’ wife called me a goon—and she wasn’t wrong. As second-in-command, I did whatever needed to keep Black Resorts running smoothly. That often included the aforementioned violence since Vegas wasn’t short on people who deserved it.
The rarity was those who deserved protection.
Like Mila.
Liar. Thief. And my little ray of pessimistic sunshine.
Her spoon wasn’t silver. Hell, it wasn’t even a spoon. It was a plastic spork that she hustled and fought for, and she’d always done it alone.
But that changed the second she nearly passed out in my arms.
She called me a behemoth.
I wanted her to call me Daddy.