Memories of a Crime Boss in a Child’s Body

The days bled into weeks as Quincy Presley-Jackson continued his rigorous self-training, slowly unlocking the abilities of the five-year-old body he now inhabited. Yet, as he mastered the art of his father's dance and the elegance of his grandfather's music, the memories of his former life as Augusto Valentini weighed heavily on him. He had always thrived on control, ruthlessness, and power. In this new life, the absence of fear and submission from others gnawed at him like a festering wound.

For now, he was still a child. But his mind wasn't.

The house staff treated him like a normal five-year-old boy—albeit a privileged one. He had access to every room in the sprawling mansion, the pool, the garden, and the various music rooms filled with instruments. The cooks and maids smiled at him, their faces kind and sweet, assuming that the innocent face he wore matched the mind behind it.

They were wrong.

The world outside, however, was different. There were people—other children, parents, strangers—who didn't treat him with the same reverence. They didn't know who he was, and some didn't care. They didn't understand that behind Quincy's youthful eyes lay the mind of a man who had once orchestrated mob wars, assassinations, and controlled an empire that spanned the country. He was an emperor reborn, yet now forced to live in the shadow of his powerful parents.

One particular day, Quincy experienced a sobering reminder of the difference between his past and his current life. He had been brought to a private park in Beverly Hills, a place frequented by other wealthy families. There were swings, slides, and jungle gyms—all typical of a space meant for children. It was mid-afternoon, and the park was buzzing with life as Quincy's mother's driver, Thomas, escorted him there.

Quincy didn't mind the park itself, but the children were another matter. They were loud, unruly, and impulsive—traits he despised. Even worse, they didn't recognize him. To them, he was just another kid, albeit dressed in finer clothes and with more polished manners.

He had wandered to a corner of the park, away from the others, when he heard voices behind him. Two boys, a few years older than him, were pushing around a smaller boy. It was the kind of scene that in his old life would have warranted swift and brutal punishment. In this body, however, Quincy couldn't act on his instincts in the same way.

One of the older boys noticed Quincy watching and sneered, approaching him with a smug expression. "What're you looking at?"

Quincy tilted his head, his emerald eyes locking onto the boy's face. "You," he said simply.

The boy seemed taken aback by Quincy's calmness. "You think you're tough, huh? Just because your clothes are fancy?"

Quincy felt a surge of annoyance, but he held it in check. He had learned long ago that rage was a tool, something to be used carefully. This child had no idea who he was dealing with—no idea that the boy standing before him had once commanded men who would kill at a single word.

The boy shoved him. Hard.

Quincy barely moved, but the sensation of being pushed awakened something in him, a deep-rooted part of Augusto Valentini that would not tolerate disrespect.

He glanced down at the boy's hand where it had struck him and then looked back up into the boy's face. His gaze, calm and collected, unsettled the older kid. Quincy could see the uncertainty flicker in the boy's eyes.

Fear, Quincy thought. Good. Let him feel it.

"Touch me again," Quincy said softly, "and I'll make sure you regret it."

The boy hesitated, but before he could respond, the other child—the one who had been bullied—spoke up. "Leave him alone, Derek."

Derek, the older boy, glared at both of them, but the tension in his stance faltered. He looked back at Quincy one last time, and then with a huff, he turned and walked away, his friend trailing behind him.

Quincy watched them go, his mind running through a dozen different scenarios of how he could have handled the situation if he were still Augusto. The urge to retaliate more forcefully simmered within him, but he held it back. This body was still small, still limited. But one day, it wouldn't be.

When the park had emptied out later in the afternoon and Quincy was preparing to leave, the boy who had been bullied approached him. "Thanks for that," he said quietly.

Quincy barely acknowledged him, still lost in his thoughts. But something the boy said next caught his attention.

"My name's James. James Parker."

Quincy's gaze snapped to the boy. The name rang a bell, but it wasn't until the boy added, "My dad's a movie producer," that the puzzle pieces clicked into place. Quincy recognized the name from his previous life. James Parker was the son of a producer who would one day become influential in Hollywood. He would grow up to become an actor in his own right—nothing world-changing, but well-connected.

Quincy filed this information away. He had no intention of befriending anyone without reason, but James could be useful in the future. Quincy's ambition stretched beyond the limits of the music industry. He would need people in every corner of the entertainment world, and Hollywood was a chessboard he planned to dominate.

"I'm Quincy," he said, forcing a small smile, one that appeared innocent but carried the weight of an empire behind it.

That evening, back in the mansion, Quincy sat in his room, his mind turning over the events of the day. The encounter with Derek had been a reminder of the limitations of his new body, but also a reminder of his growing control. He would have power again—just in a different form.

As night fell, Quincy found himself staring at a photo on his nightstand. It was a picture of his parents, taken during one of their rare moments together. Michael's hand rested on Lisa Marie's shoulder, their smiles soft but distant. He studied their faces—two people who had shaped the music world in ways few could imagine.

In his mind, they were not just his parents. They were stepping stones.

And as he stared at the photo, his resolve solidified. He would surpass them both—his father's reign in pop music and his grandfather's legacy in rock. He would outdo them, and he would do it with ruthless precision.

But before all that, Quincy needed to build his own network, just as he had done as Augusto Valentini. His empire had been made in the streets, but this time it would be crafted through entertainment and influence. And those like James Parker, small and insignificant as they might seem now, would be the first pieces on his board.

He leaned back in his chair, his mind already calculating his next moves. He might be a child in the eyes of the world, but that would only make his rise to power all the more remarkable.

The game is just beginning, he thought. And this time, I will win.